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I 


POEMS 


OF 


WITH     MEMOIR. 


ANSONIA,   CONN.: 

PRESS  OF  "THE  EVENING  SENTINEL. 

1887. 


j, 


TO 
THK    MKMORV 

OF 

JOHN    WHITING    STORKS, 

WHOSE    LIFE    WAS    PURE,   WHOSE    AIMS    WERE    HIGH, 
WHOSE    PURPOSES    WERE    NOBLE; 

WHO  SAM;  so  s \YKET LY 

OF    FAITH    IN    <;ol>,   OF    HOPE    IX    IMMORTALITY, 
OF    LOVE    TO    ALL    MANKIND, 

THIS    BOOK 
IS    AFFECTIONATELY    DEDICATED 

BY 
HIS    LOVING    WIFE. 


M191900 


MY  EPITAPH: 


What  shall  you  say  of  me  ?     This  if  you  can, 
That  he  loved  like  a  child,  and  lived  like  a  man; 
That,  with  head  that  was  bended,  he  reverent  stood 
In  the  presence  of  all  that  he  knew  to  be  good; 
That  he  strove  as  he  might  with  pen  and  with  tongue, 
To  cherish  the  right,  and  to  banish  the  wrong; 
That  the  world  was  to  him  as  he  went  on  his  way, 
As  the  bud  to  the  flower;  as  the  dawn  to  the  day 
That  he  knew  was  to  come.      E'en,  say  if  you  can, 
That  he  labored  and  prayed  for  the  crowning  of  man 
As  king  of  himself;  that  the  God  that  he  knew 
Was  the  God  of  the  many  as  well  as  the  few — 
The  Father  of  all.      Write,  then,  if  you  must, 
Of  the  errors  that  came  with  the  clay  and  the  dust; 
l>ut  add — as  you  may,  perhaps — to  the  verse, 
For  his  having  lived  in  it,  the  world  is  no  worse. 


*The  above  beautiful  lines  were  the  result  of  an  inquiry  by  the  late  Dr.  Beards- 
ley  while  preparing  his  History  of  Derby.  Turning  to  Mr.  Storrs,  one  day,  while 
writing,  he  said:  "Well,  John,  what  shall  I  say  of  you?"  Without  making  reply,  Mr. 
Storrs  turned  to  a  desk  and  wrote  out  his  "epitaph,1'  as  above.  It  was  an  impromptu 
effort  and  so  pleased  the  doctor  that  he  incorporated  it  in  his  history. 


PREFACE, 


This  book  is  not  for  the  critic,  or  for  those  who  have  attained  perfection 
in  the  methods  of  thought  and  expression.  It  is  an  attempt  to  preserve  to  the 
world  thoughts  and  utterances  that  were  honest-hearted  efforts  to  lead  men 
to  higher  and  better  living;  to  teach  faith  in  God  and  charity  to  fellow-men. 
Mr.  Storrs  was  always  diffident  of  his  poetical  abilities,  and  modest  in  his 
estimate  of  the  value  of  his  writings,  and  until  a  recent  period  was  averse  to 
any  attempt  to  put  them  in  book  form.  Strongly  urged  by  his  friends,  espec- 
ially among  the  Veteran  Free  Masons,  to  do  so,  he  finally  yielded  to  their 
solicitations  and  at  the  annual  meeting  in  Bridgeport,  in  1886,  he  promised 
to  undertake  the  work,  which  was  begun  soon  aiterwards.  Ill  health  and 
pressing  newspaper  duties  prevented  rapid  progress  with  the  preparation  of 
the  manuscripts,  and  but  little  was  accomplished  by  him,  though  at  the  annu- 
al meeting,  at  New  Britain,  in  June  last,  he  announced  that  he  expected  to 
get  the  poems  into  print  by  the  end  of  this  year.  In  a  few  weeks  thereafter 
he  sickened  and  died. 

From  the  condition  in  which  the  manuscripts  were  found  it  is  evident 
that  Mr.  Storrs  had  intended  to  revise  them  somewhat,  but  in  just  what  line 
or  direction  cannot  be  known.  Feeling  personally  anxious  that  the  work 
should  be  completed,  and  being  urged  thereto  by  his  Masonic  and  personal 
friends,  I  have  attempted  the  work  of  compiling  and  arranging  the  poems  for 
publication,  not  because  I  was  the  one  best  fitted  for  it,  but  because,  know- 
ing him  intimately,  and  having  been  bound  to  him  by  family  and  fraternal 
ties  for  more  than  a  third  of  a  century,  I  better  know  the  man  and  the  spirit 
that  prompted  and  permeated  all  his  writings.  Doubtful  of  my  abilities  in 
such  a  line,  I  have  attempted  a  task  which  I  would  not  have  done  but  for  the 
kindly  assistance  of  Mr.  J.  M.  Emerson,  of  "The  Ansonia  Sentinel,"  with 
whom  Mr.  Storrs  had  been  associated  on  the  editorial  staff. 

Had  Mr.  Storrs  lived  to  complete  the  work  he  would  doubtless  have 
modified  many  of  his  poems,  for  some  of  them,  as  I  well  know,  were  hurried- 
ly written  for  special  occasions,  without  time  for  revision.  I  have  preferred  to 
print  them  just  as  I  found  them,  correcting  only  manifest  typographical  errors, 
and  preserving  the  strong  individuality  with  which  they  are  stamped. 

What  Mr.  Storrs  wrote  was  from  the  promptings  of  a  warmly  generous 
heart.  Only  a  few  months  since  he  said  to  me:  "  In  all  that  I  have  written 
it  has  been  my  aim  never  to  lead  man  to  think  more  meanly  of  his  fellow- 
inan,  or  to  lessen  to  any  degree  his  faith  in  God.  My  aim  has  been  to  edu- 


6  PREFACE. 

cate,  to  elevate  and  to  ennoble  humanity."  I  am  certain  that  he  spoke  the 
truth;  and  because  I  was  in  full  sympathy  with  him  in  all  his  aims  and  pur- 
poses, I  am  anxious  that  thoughts  which  he  expressed  so  sweetly  and  tenderly 
should  be  preserved. 

May  those  who  love  the  things  that  are  good  and  true;  who  toil  in  faith, 
and  hope,  and  love,  to  lead  their  fellow-men  to  a  higher  and  better  plane  of 
existence,  gain  fresh  strength  and  courage  from  the  inspiring  words  of  one 
who  "looked  through  Nature  up  to  Nature's  God,"  and  of  whom  I  can  truly 
say:— 

"For  his  having  lived  in  it  the  world  is  no  worse.'' 

WM.  WALLACE  LEE. 

MKKIDKN,  CONN.,   Oct.,  1887. 


MEMOIR. 


JOHN  WHITING  STORKS  was  born  in  the  Connecticut  rural  town  of 
Woodbridge,  February  gth,  1824.  His  father  was  John  Roger  Storrs,  and 
his  mother  Sarah  G.  Clark,  a  granddaughter  of  Rev.  Mr.  Woodbridge,  the 
original  pastor  of  the  town.  He  was  of  the  sixth  generation  from  Samuel 
Storrs,  one  of  the  earliest  proprietors  of  Mansfield,  Conn.  From  Wood- 
bridge  his  parents  removed  to  Oxford,  where  most  of  his  boyhood  days  were 
spent.  Thence  they  came  to  Seymour  (then  Humphreysville)  and  there  he 
grew  to  manhood.  The  educational  facilities  of  the  time  were  of  themselves 
quite  limited,  but  Mr.  Storrs  was  unable  to  avail  himself  of  even  such  as  they 
were.  When  he  reached  his  majority  he  possessed  only  the  simplest  rudi- 
ments of  an  education,  his  father  being  more  desirous  that  the  son  should 
make  a  good  shoemaker  than  that  he  should  drink  of  the  draughts  of  knowl- 
edge. The  trade  was  distasteful  to  him,  was  prosecuted  very  reluctantly,  and 
abandoned  at  the  earliest  opportunity.  Mental  pursuits  were  far  more  con- 
genial. It  is  related  of  him  that  as  a  boy  he  was  very  fond  of  drawing,  and 
many  were  the  pictures  of  houses,  barns,  trees  and  other  objects  that  he 
traced  in  graceful  outline  with  charcoal  upon  rude  pieces  of  board.  The 
poetic  capabilities  of  his  mind  also  began  to  manifest  themselves  early.  In 
1849  he  wrote  a  short  poem  that  attracted  considerable  attention  in  his  neigh- 
borhood, which  poem  was  credited  to  his  mother,  then  an  invalid.  Some 
creditable  specimens  of  painting  also  appeared  from  his  hand  about  this  time, 
but  he  did  not  undertake  to  develop  his  powers  in  this  direction  to  any  great 
extent. 

In  1849  he  was  appointed  postmaster  of  Humphreysville,  under  Presi- 
dent Taylor,  surrendering  the  office  in  1853  when  President  Pierce  came  in. 
Soon  afterwards  he  started  the  "Seymour  Independent,"  a  paper  which,  as  its 
name  indicates,  was  professedly  independent,  but  with  Whig  tendencies. 
This  was  the  first  effort  to  establish  a  newspaper  in  Seymour.  It  was  an 
earnest  and  sincere  effort,  but  was  abandoned  after  two  or  three  years,  for 
want  of  patronage.  It  sufficed,  however,  to  quicken  the  desire  and  confirm 
the  taste  for  newspaper  work,  and  from  that  time  to  his  death  Mr.  Storrs  was 
connected  with  the  press  in  the  capacity  of  correspondent,  reporter  or  editor. 
His  latest  connection  was  with  "The  Ansonia  Sentinel,"  having  full  charge 
of  its  Birmingham  department,  over  which  he  presided  for  almost  six  years 
with  much  credit  to  himself  and  great  acceptability  to  the  public.  Prior  to 
this,  about  1858,  he  had  taken  editorial  charge  of  "  The  Derby  Journal,"  a 


8  MEMOIR. 

Birmingham  paper  that  was  in  a  moribund  condition  when  he  came  to  it,  and 
which  neither  business  tact  nor  literary  ability  could  rescue  from  the  natural 
decease  that  awaited  it.  After  this  effort,  he  engaged  in  the  photograph  busi- 
ness, proving  himself  a  very  good  artist,  but  was  unable  to  prosecute  the 
trade  for  any  long  period  of  time  owing  to  ill  health. 

Mr.  Storrs  was  quite  prominent  among  the  Masonic  fraternity  of  his 
state,  and  by  some  has  been  characterized  as  the  poet  of  the  order.  At  many 
of  the  annual  reunions  of  the  Veteran  Masons  during  the  past  ten  or  twelve 
years  he  has  been  present  and  has  read  poems  on  each  occasion.  These  are 
all  included  in  the  present  volume,  with  some  others.  He  became  a  Mason 
in  1852,  being  initiated  into  Morning  Star  lodge,  of  Seymour.  He  after- 
wards affiliated  with  King  Hiram  lodge,  of  Birmingham.  He  was  also  a 
member  of  Solomon  chapter,  R.  A.  M.  He  never  held  any  offices  in  the 
order,  having  no  taste  for  ritualistic  lore  and  the  technicalities  of  law.  But 
the  principles  of  brotherhood  always  commanded  his  willing  service  at  any 
time.  Hence  he  was  very  often  called  on  for  poems  at  reunions  and  society 
gatherings,  and  his  productions  were  always  received  with  hearty  demonstra- 
tions of  approval.  Mr  Storrs  was  also  warmly  attached  to  the  veterans  of 
our  late  civil  war,  and  by  his  patriotic  verses  and  personal  efforts  in  behalf  of 
the  survivors  of  the  struggle,  so  enshrined  himself  in  their  affections  that  he 
was  regarded  as  one  of  their  number.  Several  of  the  poems  read  by  him  at 
celebrations  of  the  veterans  are  also  included  in  the  collection. 

The  death  of  Mr.  Storrs  occurred  on  Sunday,  August  28th,  1887.  He 
was  in  his  sixty-fourth  year. 


CONTENTS 


MASONIC: —  PAGE. 

A  1'oem,  49 

Brotherhood,  -           33 

Burns  to  His  Friends,  63 

From  Darkness  to  Light,  16 

In  Memoriam,          -  67 

June  Snow,  21 

Masonry — Its  Meaning  and  Mission,     -  25 

The  Blessedness  of  Masonry,  71 

The  Closing  of  the  Lodge,  73 

The  Double  Funeral,       -  -          72 

The  old  and  the  New,  57 

The  Religion  of  Masonry,  37 

To  the  Veteran  Craft,  14 

To  the  Craft.  -          28 

Two  Vacant  Chairs,  41 

You  and  I,  .45 

PATRIOTIC: — 

Company  Z,  103 

Don't  Forget  Them,  -          97 

For  Memorial  Day,  87 

In  the  Orange  Churchyard,  -          78 

My  Father's  Flag  and  Yours,  98 

North  and  South  of  Dixie,  81 

Thanksgiving  for  Victory,  96 

The  Day  and  Its  Lessons,  -          89 

The  New  Dixie,  91 

The  Spirit  of  the  Men,  76 

OCCASIONAL: — 

Just  Twenty  Years  Ago,  112 

Old  and  New,  -        107 

The  Bright  To-morrow,  113 

The  Story  of  the  Years,  -        116 


10  CONTENTS. 

TKMPKKANCE:  —  PAGE 

After  the  Debauch,  137 


He  stood  at  the  Bar, 

(  )n'y,       - 

Shall  We  License  It  ? 
The  Heathen  at  our 
The  Red  Light  Decoy, 


(  )n'y,       -  140 

.    i39 
he  Heathen  at  our  Door,  -  135 


MUSINCS:  — 

A  Fragment  _                  .                 2oo 

A  Reverie,  _                  .        j  i  j 

A  Reverie  _                  _                 jcg 

At  High  Rock,  .        I9I 

Castle  Building,  j^ 

Consolation,  _        ^3 

Death,  the  Revealer,  .                  .                 jg^ 

Farther  Light,                                                        .  .                  -         186 

God  in  His  Providence,                               -  _                  _                 jgj 

In  the  Cottage  Beside  the  Sea,        -  .         Ioo 

Jake  and  Joe,  Ig8 

Let  Us  Tray,  .                  -         179 

Lowering  the  Standard,  ^3 

My  (  'reed,         -  -         143 

Ne\v  Year's  Thoughts,  _                  J73 

Night  on  the  Boulevard,  .                  _        ljI 

Sad  Moments,                                                _  -                 176 

The  Church  our  Fathers  Built,  .        IOg 

The  Great  To-day,                                       .  .                  _                2oi 

This  Hero  of  Ours,                                                   .  _        I(^ 

The  Old  Folks  Talk  it  Over,  I53 

The  Old  Town  Clock,     -  .        I9O 

The  Sealskin  Sacque,                                   -  rgy 

The  Silk-worm  and  Glow-worm,  _        I(>7 

The  Test  for  True  Living,      -  _                                   Uj6 

The  Unknown  Dead,  _        lc)O 

The  Yet  to  Be,  I77 

Truth,  .        I8o 

Under  the  Shadow,                                      .  rwj 

What  WTins,                                          _  -        164 

Well  Done,  2OI 

N'e  are  the  Reapers,          -                  -                  _  .                  _        I4I- 


CONTENTS.  II 

FANCIES:—-  PAGE 

A  Birthday  Rhyme,  -                  .                233 

A  Christmas  Carol,  ..                 .        243 

Among  the  Memories,  -                  _                245 

Autumn,  -                                             205 

Baby  Belle,  .                  .                 204 

Barbara  Bray,  -                  .                  _        206 

Barney  McKay,  216 

Beaver  Brook,  -                  _                  -        261 

Beautiful  Leaves,     -                                   ...  256 

Kmpty  is  the  Coal  Bin,  _                  _        242 

Five  Words  Only,  -                 203 

Indian  Well,  _                  _        253 

Little  Things,                                                -  225 

My  Dream,      -  _     "         •    .        234 

My  Village  Home,  .                  _                 240 

My  Wife,       .  -  -        224 

Old  and  New  Year,                                      -  _                                   257 

They  are  Seven,  -                                             226 

The  Beggar's  Christmas,          -  _                                   236 

The  Dying  Girl,                                  -  _        208 

The  Maid  of  Lindermere,        -  -                 212 

The  Picture  Upon  the  Wall,  -                  -                  -        263 

The  River  of  Time,  _                                   210 

The  Town  on  the  Hill,  _                  .        259 

The  Two  Fishers.                                         -  228 

The  Tying  of  the  Greens,  -                  -                  _        222 

The  Voyage  of  Life,  _                  _                 252 

MISCKLL. \NF.ors: — 

A  Man  is  a  Man,                                     -  -                  _                      273 

An  Eastern  Apologue.  .                 286 

An  Farly  Frost,  -                                               281 

December,  314 

Discouragements,  _        T>i6 

Hon.  Josephus  Brown,  _                 265 

In  Memoriam  (Dr.  A.  Beardsley)  -                  -        274 

Let  Him  Alone,       -  -                                  270 

Lines  (Lee  Silver  Wedding),  _        317 

Love  Cannot  Die,     -                                    -  324 

Lo!  the  Poor  Indian,       -  .                          3I2 

Marry  a  Gentleman,  -                  -                267 


12  CONTENTS. 

MISCELLANEOUS: —  PAGE 

My  Story  of  the  Years,     -  300 

New  England,  264 

Our  Modern  Girls,  -        287 

On  Sambro  Ledge,  322 

Thanksgiving  in  Ye  Olden  Tyme,  -        310 

To  an  Invalid  Mother,  271 

The  Boycott,  -        268 

The  Dying  Soldier,  295 

The  Greenhorn  Invasion,  -        289 

The  Little  Grumblers,  304 

The  Lockout  Bell,  -        283 

The  Making  of  the  Will,  297 

The  Trouble  at  Podank,  -        275 

The  Volunteer  Bell,  320 

To  My  Mother  in  Heaven,  -        321 

True  Greatness,        -  324 

Two  Ways  of  Living,      -  -        306 

What  I  Would  Have  Said,  291 

What  the  First  Robin  Said,  -        280 


INVOCATION. 

0H  Masonry  Sublime  !  beloved  of  all  that  know 
The  matchless  beauty  of  thy  sov'reign  charms: 
Through  all  their  years  of  journeyings  below, 

Thy  sons  have  sheltered  in  thy  loving  arms  ; 
Still  hold  and  keep  them  firmly  by  the  hand, 
Till  ends  their  journey  to  the  better  land. 

As  by  the  chisel  and  the  mallet's  blow, 

The  fairest  forms  in  beauteous  marble  live  : 

So,  from  our  hearts  may  evermore  outflow 

Those  comely  graces  it  is  thine  to" give  :— 

That  finds  a  flower  on  every  thorny  rod, 

And  leadeth  on  to  manhood  and  to  God. 

Broad  o'er  the  earth  let  thy  proud  arches  span  ; 

High  as  to  heaven,  thy  shining  turrets  rise  ! 
Stretch  forth  thy  hand  and  lift  poor  fallen  man 

From  error's  ways,  and  teach  him  to  be  wise  ; 
So  shall  the  world  in  thee,  above  the  night, 
Hail  the  glad  dawn  of  Universal  Light. 


14  MASONIC. 

TO  THE  VETERAN  CRAFT. 

READ    AT    THE    SECOND    ANNTAL     MEKTINi;    OF    THE     VETERAN     ASSOCIATION 
IN    BIRMINGHAM,     JUNE,     1872. 

"VT'E  reverend  sires  !  once  more  our  feet 
A  Upon  one  common  LEVEL  meet, 
Where,  knee  to  knee  and  breast  to  breast, 
We  whisper  welcome  to  each  guest 
Whose  honored  locks  have,  by  the  way 
Of  past  decades,  grown  ripe  and  gray  ; 
And  who,  by  dint  of  honest  toil, 
Have  quite  deserved  life's  WINE  AND  OIL. 

Thrice  honored  sires  !  save  only  where 
Some  silvery  head  lifts  here  and  there 
Above  the  wreck — like  lands  of  light 
Uprising  through  some  shadowy  night — 
The  busy  world  that  was  your  own, 
Has  passed  away,  and  ye,  alone, 
Of  all  your  craft,  are  left  to  tell 
How  much  ye  builded,  and  how  well  ; 

How,  when  attacked  by  Church  and  State, — 

When  RUFFIANS  stood  at  every  gate, 

With  trait'rous  heart  and  venomed  tongue, 

Dissent  to  show  your  craft  among  ; 

When  truth  seemed  crushed  and  error  grew, 

O'ershadowing  all  the  good  and  true  ; 

When  craven  lips,  like  Peter's,  cried, 

"  I  know  ye  not,"  still  on  the  side 

Where  foes  were  rife  and  friends  were  few, 

Ye  fought  the  fight,  and  gained  it,  too. 

Unquestioned  now  through  all  the  land 
Extends  the  ARCH  that  HIRAM  planned  ; 
Embracing  'neath  its  glorious  span 
The  whole  broad  brotherhood  of  man. 
And  we,  your  sons,  are  here,  to-day, 


MASONIC.  15 

Beneath  its  sheltering  dome  to  lay 
Upon  his  brow  the  grateful  wreath, 
Who  fought  our  fight,  and  kept  our  faith. 

Amid  the  darkness  of  that  night, 

Your  cry  went  up  to  God  for  LIGHT. 

He  heard  your  prayer,  and  gave  you  strength, 

And  years  to  see  the  dawn,  at  length, 

Whose  glowing  light  illumines  our  way 

With  promise  of  still  brighter  day, 

When  wars  shall  cease,  and  Love  shall  bind 

With  strengthened  bonds  all  human  kind  ; 

Which  opening  wide  the  gates  of  bliss, 

Makes  future  life  the  goal  of  this. 

I  know  not  what  in  store  may  be 

For  you,  my  brother,  or  for  me  ; 

But  this  I  know — since  God  is  just — 

If  in  His  strength  we  put  our  trust, 

Through  journeys  long,  or  good,  or  ill, 

His  strong  arm  will  lead  us  still. 

And  when  we  part — as  part  we  must — 

Somewhere  to  meet  again,  I  trust, 

May  that  calm  strength,  that  earnest  arm, 

That  rugged  faith  which  kept  aflame 

Our  altar  fires  through  ill  and  good, 

Descend  to  bless  our  brotherhood. 

There  comes  a  time — it  comes  to  ail- 
When  we  shall  hear  the  Warden's  call, 
And  each,  with  ASHLER  ROUGH  or  true, 
Must  pass  Death's  solemn  portal  through. 
Be  it  yours,  my  brother,  then  to  hear 
From  th'  Master's  lips  these  words  of  cheer, 
"  Your  work  is  found  both  true  and  square, 
Pass  on  !" 


l6  MASONIC. 

FROM  DARKNESS  TO  LIGHT. 


READ    AT    THE    ANNUAL  MEETINC    OF    THE    VETERANS    IN    NEW  HAVEN,    1874. 

Venerable  Brothers  : 

rWELVE  months  have  passed  since  last  we  met 

Upon  this  ancient  LEVEL, 
When,  "  looking  east,  we  gave  the  sign, 

And  heard  the  parting  '  gavel.'  " 
The  kindly  benizon  was  said, 

Each  brother,  loving  hearted, 
With  each  exchanged  the  friendly  "grip," 
And  "on  the  square  "  we  parted. 

Who,  then,  the  future  could  forecast  ? 

What  prophet  tell  us  whether 
Or  not,  at  our  next  "  gavel  "  call, 

We  all  should  meet  together? 
Yet,  though  behind  each  "  Temple  gate  " 

Some  "  ruffian  "  foe  was  hidden, 
By  dint  of  strength  we  "  pass  "  at  length, 

And  come,  to-day,  as  bidden, 
To  drink  with  you  the  "oil  and  wine  " 

From  mystic  fount  supernal, 
Beneath  the  broad,  protecting  "  Arch  " 

Of  Masonry  fraternal. 

"  Sojourners  "  here  but  for  a  time, 

Life's  morning  pack  we  gird  on, 
Yet,  ere,  perhaps,  the  evening  sun, 

We  drop  the  precious  burden. 
The  longest  life  is  short  at  best, 

And  even  though  we  should   win 
What  men  call  "length  of  years,"  at  last, 

(Like  Brothers  Wells  and  Goodwin), 
We  fill  (I  trust  with  honest  "work,") 

Our  bark  and  o'er  the  river, 
With  hope  and  "trustful  heart,"  pass  on 

From  mortal  sight  forever. 


MASONIC.  17 

Lo  !  as  I  look  along  this  line 

Of  craftsmen  gray  and  hoary, 
I  seek  for  one  familiar  form — 

One  manly  "crown  of  glory." 
You  point  me  to  one  vacant  chair — 

The  name  of  WIRE  is  spoken  ; 
You  tell  his  virtues,  but  alas  ! 

I  find  his  "column  "  broken. 
'Twas  builded  well.     Full  eighty  years 

His  honest  blows  resounded 
From  "base  "  to  "cap,"  till  "ashler  rough  " 

Was  sweetly  smoothed  and  rounded. 
'Twas  built  upon  such  solid  base 

Of  brotherhood  and  duty, 
That  even  Time's  despoiling  hand 

Could  scarcely  mar  its  beauty. 
And  though  to  dust  its  dust  returns, 

The  builder's  inward  spirit 
Of  love  for  God  and  fellow-man 

As  Masons  we  inherit. 

()  craftsmen,  what  a  world  were  this, 

If  men  would  work  together, 
Like  brothers  true,  life's  journey  through, 

In  dark  or  sunny  weather; 
There's  scarce  an  ill  to  us  bequeathed 

By  Eve,  our  erring  mother, 
But  might  be  cured,  or  well  endured, 

If  men  would  love  each  other. 
Our  Father,  God;  our  mother,  earth; 

Are  we  not  brethren  fairly  ? 
Why  then  should  we  not  all  "  agree, 

In  peace  and  love  and  unity," 

To  treat  each  other  squarely  ? 
Ought  men  to  act  like  wolves  in  pack, 

That  eat  each  lame  relation, 
Nor  spare  a  friend  if  selfish  end 

Demands  his  immolation  ? 


l8  MASONIC. 

Can  we  afford  to  draw  the  sword 

At  every  slight  offending, 
While  o'er  our  head- — perhaps  by  a  thread — 

Are  sharper  ones  suspending  ? 
I  tell  you  nay  !  the  gentler  way 

Is  best  with  those  that  grieve  us  : 
For  when  we  pray,  do  we  not  say, 

"  As  we  forgive,  forgive  us  ?" 
O  craftsmen,  then,  let  us  as  men 

And  brethren  dwell  together  ; 
For  aye  to  stand,  with  heart  in  hand, 

In  friendship  by  each  other. 

The  day  for  bigotry  and  hate 

Is  past  and  out  of  season  : 
No  partial  God  holds  out  the  rod 

In  this  the  day  of  reason  ! 
No  petty  tyrant  as  of  old, 

With  creed  and  dogma  crammed,  sir, 
Shouts,  swim  MY  brook  and  bite  MY  hook, 

Or  I  will  see  you  damned,  sir. 
Or,  IF  he  "shout,  "  some  worldly  lout, 

More  sharp  than  reverential, 
With  grinning  mask,  is  apt  to  ask, 

To  see  the  chap's  credential. 
The  ruling  theme  to-day  is  love, 

In  sermon  and  in  story  ; 
And  few  will  tell  of  infant's  hell, 

Where  God  once  wrought  his  "  glory." 
In  fact,  this  thought  is  gaining  ground, 

(For  which  we're  much  the  debtor,) 
By  Gods  or  men,  by  tongue  or  pen, 

The  less  we're  damned  the  better. 
"  Man  Friday's  "  question,  "  why  don't  God 

Wipe  out  this  fiend  of  evil?" 
Is  answered,  since  good  common  sense 

At  last  HAS  "killed  the  devil." 


MASONIC.  19 

Yet,  brother  m-ine,  though  law  divine 

Is  love  not  retribution, 
Still  this  is  true,  who  fails  to  sow 

Will  reap  but  destitution. 
Who  sows  the  wind  and  reaps  the  storm 

Gets  all  that's  due  him  fairly  ; 
Who  sows  the  sun  at  heart  is  warm, 

And  walks  in  darkness  rarely. 
Some  one  may  say,  now  if  I  pray 

And  go  to  church  on  Sunday, 
I've  filled  the  plot,  no  matter  what 

I  choose  to  do  on  Monday  ! 
Be  not  deceived  !  With  Masons  true 

Each  week  has  Sundays  seven  ; 
And  every  one,  from  sun  to  sun, 

To  righteous  "  work  "  is  given. 

Be  not  deceived  !   'tis  th'  conscience  men 

Who  "work  "  for  seven-day  wages  ;      , 
That  build  our  ARCH  and  lead  the  march 

Of  progress  through  the  ages. 
'Tis  not  enough  that  men  should  meet 

In  seventh  day  convention, 
And  mumble  creeds,  content  that  deeds 

Should  have  the  merest- mention. 
'Tis  not  enough  that  men  should  mouth 

Their  prayers  of  showy  sounding, 
While  at  their  door  God's  needy  poor, 

Unaided,  are  abounding. 
The  tree  whose  mission  'tis  to  bear 

But  flowers,  has  done  its  duty, 
When  its  perfume  is  on  the  air, 

And  men  have  seen  its  beauty. 
But  where  we  have  a  right  to  look 

For  FRUIT  of  fair  dimensions, 
Why  be  content  with  the  simple  scent 

Of  flowery-made  pretensions  ? 


20  MASONIC. 

God  asks  for  "figs  !"  and  if  the  tree 

In  barrenness  still  slumbers/ 
He  cuts  it  down  and  plants  his  own 

Upon  the  ground  it  cumbers. 
God  asks  for  WORK  !  Then,  as  he  gives 

Us  strength,  so  let  us  use  it, 
That  EVERY  day  its  part  shall  bear 
In  yielding  "work,"  so  "  true  and  square,' 

That  he  will  not  refuse  it. 


Here  I  might  pause  ;  and  yet,  perhaps,  'twere  fitting, 
That  should  be  spoken  words  of  kindly  cheer 

To  these  our  fathers,  as  a  special  greeting, 
On  this  reunion  of  another  year. 

To  these,  our  fathers,  that  in  day  of  trial, 

Stood  by  our  craft  when  weaker  spirits  quailed, 

Chiseling — in  darkness,  faith  and  self-denial — 
Stones  for  the  altar  the  future  was  to  build. 

Meeting  on  the  hill-top — toiling  in  the  valley — 
Watching  for  the  cowan  ever  on  their  trail  ; 

Only  this  to  guide  them — only  this  to  rally, 

Brotherhood  and  duty  to  "  God  within  the  veil." 

Well,  "  how  goes  the  hour  "  with  you,  O  aged  warder  ? 

With  you  whose  head  so  whitens  in  the  sun  ? 
With  you  whose  feet  tread  close  upon  the  border, 

Where  "labor"  has  an  end,  and  refreshment  is  begun  ? 

How  goes  the  hour,  through  valleys  dark  and  lowly  ? 

More  thorns  than  flowers,  more  bitter  fruit  than  sweet  ? 
"  Look  to  the  east !"  the  morning  breaketh  slowly, 

With  rest  and  refreshment  for  your  weary  feet. 

Only  a  little  way,  and  then  the  road  winds  sweetly 
Down  sloping  woodlands  to  the  setting  sun, 

Only  a  little  while,  and  struggling  hope  completely 
Shall  find  fruition  for  life's  "  labor"  done. 


MASONIC.  21 


Only  a  little  way,  and  the  realms  supernal, 

Through  opening  vistas  break  upon  the  sight  ; 

Only  a  little  while,  and  in  the  "  Lodge  "  eternal, 

Shall  all  be  "raised"  from  darkness  into  LIGHT. 


JUNE   SNOW. 


READ     AT     THE     ANNUAL     REUNION     OF      THE     VETERANS    AT     WATKRBURY, 
JUNE    26,    1878. 

"  A  hoary  head  is  a  crown  of  glory." 

"  I  have  fought  the  tight — I  have  kept  the  faith." 


I. 

IN  this  leafy  month  of  June, 
With  the  forests  all  attune, 
And  the  buttercup  and  daisy 

Everywhere  upon  the  ground; 
Tell  me,  craftsmen,  if  you  know, 
Why  hath  come  this  line  of  snow, 
Here  within  this  mystic  Temple, 
To  encircle  us  around  ? 

Surely,  there  is  place  and  time, 
For  the  snow,  and  for  the  rime, — 
Where  the  buttercup  is  sleeping, 

While  the  daisies  are  away; 
But  the  thing  is  not  so  clear, 
In  this  summer  of  the  year, 
Why  it  sifteth  in  upon  us 

At  our  gathering  of  to-day. 

Yet  some  lesson,  we  may  know, 
Lieth  underneath  the  snow — 
As,  sometimes,  a  smile  is  hidden 

Underneath  a  seeming  frown; 


22  .MASONIC. 

So  these  snowy  flakes  so  white, 
Come  to  symbolize  the  light, 
And  to  teach  that  nearest  Heaven 

Shines  the  fairest,  whitest  crown. 

Just  as  in  some  mountain  land, 
While  the  traveler  may  stand, 
Gazing  upward  toward  the  summit 

Of  some  snow-capped  mountain  high, 
In  its  majesty  erect, 
He  may  truthfully  reflect, 
That  it  gains  its  chiefest  glory 

From  its  nearness  to  the  sky. 


Aged  brother,  well  I  know, 
That  the  frost  upon  thy  brow, 
But  reflects  the  ray  supernal 

That  is  streaming  from  on  high. 
And  as  farther  on  you  climb, 
Toward  the  pinnacles  of  time, 
Every  step,  some  brighter  glory 

Shall  be  gathered  from  the  sky. 

Limbs  may  totter  as  you  go, 
Furrows  deeper  line  the  brow, 
Slower  beat  life's  waning  pulses, 

Through  each  blue  and  shriveled  vein 
But  the  soul,  forever  young, 
With  a  firmer  step  and  strong, 
Shall  impatient  onward  hasten, 

Till  it  reach  the  shining  plain. 

II. 

Through  the  twilight,  dim  and  gray, 
Upward  to  this  brighter  day, 
Ye  have  brought  the  "  perfect  ashlers  " 
Which  were  hewn  upon  the  way; 
True  and  Square,  without  a  trace 


MASONIC.  23 

Of  'prentice  hand  upon  their  face — 
"  Just  the  work  are  they  that's  wanted 
For  the  Temple  "  of  to-day. 

On  each  polished  block  we  trace 
Lines  which  time  cannot  efface — 
Pictured  lines  of  ancient  battle, 

With  the  Cowans  of  the  wrong; 
And  we  read  with  quickened  sight, 
How  ye  struggled  for  the  right. 
Till  the  foe  at  last  was  vanquished, 

And  the  weak  became  the  strong. 

Ah,  the  lesson  that  is  taught 
In  the  story  thus  inwrought, 
As  we  build  our  earthly  Temple, 

To  our  profit  we  may  scan; 
Learning,  so  our  block  to  place, 
As  to  give  it  strength  and  grace, 
And  to  lay  our  strong  foundations 

Deep  within  the  inner  man. 

III. 

Craftsmen,  with  your  Spade  and   Bar, 
Ye  have  traveled  long  and  far; 
Tell  me,  if  amid  your  travels 

Ye  have  found  the  Sacred  Word  ? 
Out  of  darkness  into  day, 
As  ye  fought  your  stur.dy  way, 
Deep  within  life's  inner  Temple, 

Was  the  voice  of  Wisdom  heard  ? 

E'er  had  come  these  winter  days, 
With  their  cool  and  slanting  rays, 
Didst  thou  heed  the  great  commandment, 

"  Love  thy  God  and  neighbor,  too  "  ? 
Aye,  methinks  I  hear  you  say, 
This  we  learned  along  the  way, 
And  by  the  Word  of  Wisdom  guided 

We  have  strove  to  live  it  true. 


24  MASONIC. 

Then,  my  brother,  it  is  well; 
Joys  for  you  no  tongue  can  tell, 
As  ye  stand  erect  and  trustful, 

Waiting  for  the  homeward  gale, 
Where  the  wavelets  kiss  the  shore 
Of  the  sea  called  "  Evermore," 
Just  around  Death's  jutting  headland 

Waits  for  you  a  silver  sail. 

Tolls  the  bell!  and  helm  in  hand, 
Turns  the  boatman  from  the  land; 
Craftsmen,  in  that  homeward  passage, 

Wrho  shall  be  the  first  to  share  ? 
Swift  the  nimble  moments  fly! 
Craftsman,  is  it  you,  or  I, 
That  within  this  mystic  circle, 

First  shall  leave  a  vacant  chair  ? 

Tolls  the  bell!  and  muffled  feet 

Tread  the  city's  busy  street, 

With  our  Three  Great  Lights  in  keeping, 

Borne  by  one  of  silver  hair. 
Tolls  the  bell  !  and  swings  the  gate 
Open  to  our  last  estate, 
And  again  a  Column  Broken 

Stands  beside  a  vacant  chair. 

Other  years  shall  come  and  go, 
Leaving  only  tracks  of  snow; 
Yet  shall  ply  that  surly  boatman 

Daily  to  the  silent  shore. 
Plumb  and  (ravel,  Robe  and  Crown, 
One  by  one,  we  lay  them  down, 
Pass  beyond  earth's  line  of  vision, 

And  are  seen  of  men  no  more. 

Well,  what  matter,  so  we  land, 
Safe  upon  some  better  strand  ? 


MASONIC.  25 


More  or  less  of  time  is  nothing, 

If  Hope's  breezes  fill  our  sail. 
Poor  and  naked,  weak  and  blind, 
Gladly  leaving  earth  behind, 
Like  a  homeward  child  returning — 
Let  us  pass  within  the  vail. 


MASONRY-ITS    MEANING   AND 
MISSION. 


READ    AT    THE    ANM  AL    RF.IMOX    OF    THK   VKTKRANS  AT  NKW   HAVEN,    1879. 

IF  you  tell  me  speech  is  silver,  and  that  silence  it  is  golden, 
I  shall  grant  you,  yet  shall  give  you  but  the  silver  in  my 

rhymes; 
For  though  counted  but  as  nothing  in  the  Temple  days  and 

olden, 
Yet  we  make  it  "  legal  tender,"  in  these  democratic  times. 

Brothers,   look   you    to    the    eastward  !    far    above    the    azure 

mountains, 

Lo!  the  Genius  of  our  Order  sets  her  bow  upon  the  sky. 
From  beneath   its   shining    archway    spring    those    everliving 

fountains 

That  have  brightened  all  our  valleys  with  the  progress  of 
to-day. 

Outward   from  the   glowing  center,   Justice   sends  the  sweet 

libation 

Of  her  even-tempered  waters  on  their  purifying  way; 
While   the   blended   streams  of    Commerce,  Science,  Art  and 

Education, 

Bring  the   offerings    of    the   Nations   for  our  Temple  of 
to-day. 


26  MASONIC. 

See!    along   the    darkened    ages, — see    the    footsteps    of    our 

Martyrs; 
How  they  cut  their  shining  pathways  through  the  jungle 

of  the  wrong; 
Though    for    sordid    thirty    pieces,    here    and    there  a    Judas 

barters, 

And  the  Nazarene  is  slaughtered,  yet  the  builders  move 
along. 

For  'tis  not  by  Sign  or  Signet  that  the  temple  wall  uprises; 

These  are  but  the  crude  expression  of  a  thought  that  lies 

within; — 
E'en    without    them,    Men    are    Masons,    if    that   thought  but 

crystalizes 
Into  lives  of  loving  labor  for  the  brotherhood  of  men. 

Names   are   nothing,   forms  are   nothing;    'tis  the    Spirit  that 

.   controlleth; 

And  the  Spirit  of  our  Order  is  that  Love  that  evermore 
Hath    been    living — shall    be    working,    till    within    its    ranks 

enrol  leth 
All  the  world  to  own  its  beauty  and  its  majesty  adore. 

Oh,    this    Masonry    of    loving!    what   a    world    were    this,  my 

brother, 

If  the  walls  of  separation  could  but  once  be  broken  down! 
So  the  tender  arms  of  kindness  might  be   cast   around  each 

other, 
And  the  demons  of  our  nature  be  forever  overthrown. 

Oh,  the  Masonry  of  labor!   laying  broad  and  deep  foundations 
For  that  mighty  'superstructure    of    some    far  millennial 

time; 
Underneath   whose    Royal    Arches    shall   be  gathered  all  the 

Nations, 

In  one  Grand   Lodge  demonstration  of  the  work  of  the 
Sublime. 


MASONIC. 


Oh,  the  Masonry  of  Nations!  glorious  end  of  all  our  labor! 
Every  thought  and  deed  unselfish  brings  it  farther  on  the 


way! 


For,   no    word   can  e'er  be    uttered  for  our  God,   or  for  our 

neighbor, 
That  shall  hang  not  all  its  fruitage  on  our  Universal  Tree. 


But,  a  saddened  thought  comes  o'er  me  as  these  well  remembered 

faces 
Range  themselves  about  our   Altar,  to  revive  the  sacred 

flame. 
Here    and  there   I   see    before    me    empty  chairs  and  vacant 

places, — 

Yet    not    vacant    quite,    my    brothers,    for    each    bears    a 
cherished  name. 

Whisper  us,  oh  risen  ATWELL, — if  but  lawful  for  revealing, — 
Tell  us  what  may  be  our  chances,  when  the  shining  portals 

swing, 
As   the    glories    of    the    morning    through    the    shadows    are 

unveiling, 

And  we  stand  beneath  the  Arches  of  the  Temple  of  the 
,   King. 

Yet  we  walk  amid  the  darkness  of  our  nature,  blindly  groping, 
With  our  either  hand  outstretching  for  some  doorway  to 

the  Light, 
And  we  turn  the  roughened  Ashlers  in  the  Rubbish,  fondly 

hoping, 
To  fmd  amid  their  number  the  Key  Stone  of  the  right. 

Yet  we  have  the  bright  example  of  one  life  that  was  among  us, 
That    will    guide    us,    if    we    follow,    to    the    open   gates 

above — 
If    we    heed   his    steady '  counsel  '  to  forgive  the  wrongs  that 

wrong  us, 
And  to  win  men  into  friendship  by  our  Charity  and  Love. 


28  MASONIC. 

Then,    Companions,     with    our    Trowels,    let    us    Labor    on 

together, 

Spreading  evermore  the  mortar  of  our  kindness  as  we  go; 
So    that    when   the    Gavel    falleth,    we    shall    hear  the  loving- 
Father 
Calling  upward  to  refreshment  from  our  Labor  here  below. 


TO  THE  CRAFT. 


READ     AT     ANNUAL     REUNION     OF     THK     VKTF.RA.NS    AT    \\II.LIMANTIC,     l88<X 

I. 

nNKNOWING  whither  did  my  footsteps  tend, 
I  came  a  stranger  to  an  unknown  shore: 
Behind  me  all  was  darkness,  and  before 
Grim  shadows  deepened  on  every  hand; 

Alone  and  helpless,  yet  not  friendless,  quite, 
Else  had  my  vessel  foundered  in  the  night. 

A  thousand  wrecks  were  strewn  upon  the  tide: 

The  billows  rolled  and  raging  tempests  howled:— 
Weary  my  hand,  th'  unruly  helm  to  hold, 

Yet  safe  to  harbor  did  my  vessel  glide. 

With  timorous  feet,  I  stepped  upon  the  shore 
And,  hopeful,  entered  at  life's  open  door. 

I  looked,  and  lo!  far  up  the  mountain  side, 

Hope's  golden  temple  with  its  turrets  gleamed 
All  fair  and  bright,  as  e'er  a  poet  dreamed; 

With  lofty  pillars  and  with  portals  wide, 

Tow'ring  aloft,  above  the  craggy  height, 

Mine  eyes  were  dazzled  with  the  crowning  light.. 

With  hast'ning  speed  I  sped  the  path  along,— 
Eager,  at  once,  so  fair  a  goal  to  reach: 
Myriad  flowers  made  glad  mine  eyes,  as  each 


MASONIC.  29 

Awoke  within  the  melody  of  song. 

Yet,  as  I  climbed  still  farther  up  the  steep, 
My  castle  vanished  in  the  shadows  deep. 

The  Sun  went  out.     The  moon  and  stars  were  dead, 
Above  me  hung  a  lowering  cloud  of  grey, 
Foul,  hissing  demons  crouching  in  my  way, 

Their  venomed  shafts  into  my  bosom  sped, 
Still,  pressing  on  by  faith  into  the  night, 
With  upward  eye,  I  sought  the  morning  light. 

II. 

One  day,  I  entered  at  an  ancient  door, 

Just  as  the  shadows  of  the  evening  came: 

I  stopped  and  wrote  upon  the  dusty  floor, 

With  year  and  day,  the  record  of  my  name, 

As  one  that  long  had  traveled  in  the  night, 

From  land  to  land,  and  hung'ring  for  the  light. 

Beside  me  stood  a  venerable  form, 

Whose  head  was  hoary  with  the  frost  of  years: 
His  hand  was  gentle,  as  his  heart  was  warm, 

And  sweet  the  words  he  gave  unto  mine  ears. 
"  Courage,  my  child!  above  the  clouds  of  night, 
The  stars  are  shining,  and  the  skies  are  bright." 

But  I  am  naked,  penniless  and  blind, 

Weary  with  labor,  tremblingly  said  I: 
Tell  me,  my  father,  howso  shall  I  find, 

The  long  sought  path  up-leading  to  the  sky  ? 
Lo!  where  I  turn  fierce  brambles  pierce  my  feet, — 
On  every  step,  some  evil  doth  await! 

"Child,  take  this  staff,"  he  said,  "  and  follow  me:  " 
(The  staff  he  gave  me  was  the  Word  of  Light.) 

"  Put  on  the  sandals  of  its  truth,"  said  he, 
"And  fearless  set  thy  feet  into  the  night! 

Hope  for  thy  watch-word, — manhood  for  thy  goal, — 

Keep  well  in  view  the  temple  of  the  soul." 


MASONIC. 

I  took  the  book,  and  on  its  pages  sweet, 

I  read  the  words,  "to  them  that  overcome, 

Of  hidden  manna  will  I  give  to  eat, 

And  a  new  name."     Then  from  the  shrouding  gloom 

Mine  earth-bound  eyes  I  lifted  to  the  height, 

And  lo!  the  Temple  of  Masonic  Light 

Shone  as  the  Sun!     Upon  its  columns  rare 

Was  written  Wisdom,  Beauty,  Strength  and  Grace; 

Lined  by  the  Plumb,  and  buikled  by  the  Square, 
The  Master's  hand  was  plain  upon  its  face; 

I  looked,  and  lo!  to  Wisdom's  fair  estate 

Was  opened  wide  its  free,  inviting  gate. 

III. 

Within  the  porch,  at  length  my  pilgrim  feet, 

Travelled  and  sore,  were  privileged  to  stand: 

Yet  farther  on,  and  I  may  hope  to  meet, 

Through  faithful  toil,  the  bounty  of   His  hand, 

Who  said  of  old,  "  My  grace  I  freely  give. 

Yet,  as  thy  work,  so,  child,  must  thou  receive." 

With  this  in  view,  my  feet  still  travel  on 

The  line  of  duty,  wheresoe'er  it  tend: — 

From  op'ning  morn,  to  evening's  setting  sun, 

Each  shining  hour,  the  brightest  at  the  end. 

Whute'er  tny  sheaves — the  many  or  the  few, — 

Thankful  I  take  the  wages  that  are  clue. 

IV. 

O  brother  mine!  what  matter  though  the  gray, 
Like  snowy  flakelets  creep  into  the  hair? 

What  though  our  feet  may  falter  on  the  way  ? 

'There's  neither  snow,  or  halting  "over  there," 

\\  hither  we  go — the  proudest,  as  the  least, — 

To  take  our  stations  in  the  shining  East. 

So  let  us  live,  that  when  at  last  shall  break 
Upon  our  ears,  the  Master's  final  call; 


MASONIC.  31 

And  in  the  orient  morning  we  awake, 

No  record  there  shall  meet  us  to  appal — 
No  lengthened  shadow  to  oppress  our  way, 
Or  mar  the  op'ning  of  that  brighter  day. 

And  thou,  my  brother,  that  with  eager  feet, 

Hast  entered  hopeful  on  life's  'prentice  track, 
Strive  so  to  run,  that  with  the  ending  "heat," 

No  mark  of  honor  shall  the  record  lack. 
Keep  well  within  the  circumscribed  design 

Of  Love  and  Friendship,  turning  never  back; 
The  outer  circle  hath  the  longest  line; — 

Truth  at  the  center — take  the  inner  track! 
So  as  ye  pass  the  threshold  of  the  gate, 
The  judge's  plaudit  shall  thy  coming  greet. 


Who  knoweth  the  time  of  the  coming 

Of  the  day  that  shall  close  the  account  ? 
When  the  wheel  sjiall  be  stilled  at  the  cistern 

And  the  pitcher  broke  at  the  fount  ? 
Come  forth  with  your  rods  of  divining, 

Oh  men  that  in  Magic  are  great, 
And  read  me  the  mystical  signet, 

That  gleams  on  the  finger  of  fate! 

A  twelvemonth  of  planting  and  sowing, 

(What  matter  if  less,  or  if  more  ?) 
Of  fretting,  and  toiling  and  scheming, 

To  keep  the  gaunt  wolf  from  the  door. 
And  here  we  have  gathered  together, 

To  round  out  the  cycle  again, 
With  tears  for  the  loved  and  departed, 

And  cheers  for  the  friends  that  remain. 

The  tide  floweth  outward  and  onward, — 
A  moment,  and  we  shall  be  gone: 

High  up  on  the  shore,  there  to  crumble, 
Like  a  skull  and  a  whitening  bone! 


32  MASONIC. 

"  Who  was  he  ?  "     Oh,  say  you  "  a  dreamer 
That  dreamed  until  weary  of  breath;  " 

Yet,  remember,  oh  child  of  the  Ages, 

That  he  saw  in  the  glass.of  his  fath.— 

Near,  or  far — 'neath  the  centuries'  arches, 

The  feet  of  the  workmen  that  bring, 
With  the  Rod,  and  the  Word,  and  the  Signet, 

The  Ark  to  the  Priest,  and  the  King;— 
Where  the  Light  upon  Masonry's  altars 

The  "Word"  hath  forever  unsealed, 
And  the  Christ,  at  the  base  of  our  manhood, 

To  the  world  is  in  fullness  revealed. 

VI. 

Nay,  friend,  but  the  flame  of  our  altar, 

I  would  not  unduly  exalt; 
The  hearts  that  surround  it  are  human, 

And  the  human  hath  many  a  fault. 
We  claim  not  the  grace  of  perfection: 

Who  claimeth  this  under  the  skies, 
On  his  head  hath  the  caul  of  a  bigot, 

And  the  Light  hath  not  entered  his  eyes. 

We  ask  not  the  credit  of  Wisdom, 

Save  for  that  which  the  reason  approves; 
Our  faith  is  that  faith  of  the  ages, 

Which  runs  in  humanity's  grooves. 
Our  God  is  the  God  of  the  humble, 

That  evermore  under  the  sun, 
Regardeth  no  man  as  the  better, 

Save  for  work  he  better  hath  done! 

No  rival  to  Church  or  religion; — 

Though  bound  not  by  bigotry's  chain, — 

We  yield  to  the  "  Lion  of  Judah," 
A  right  in  our  temple  to  reign. 

And  so,  as  we  gather  together, 

We  bow  to  the  good  and  the  true, 


MASONIC.  33 


And  we  lay  upon  Masonry's  altar, 

That  homage  to  righteousness  due. 

Then,  brothers,  while  waiting  the  coming 

Of  the  day  that  shall  close  the  account; 
When  the  wheel  shall  be  still  at  the  cistern, 

And  the  pitcher  is  broke  at  the  fount, 
Let  us  climb,  hand  in  hand,  up  the  mountain, 

Undismayed  by  the  shadows  or  shade, 
Giving  each,  what  from  each  is  expected, 

The  staff  of  our  mutual  aid. 


BROTHERHOOD. 


READ    AT    ANNUAL    RKIMON    OF    VETERANS    IN    BIRMINGHAM,   l88l. 

I. 

IF  the  world  were  what  it  might  be;   if  unto  our  latter  day, 
Came  the  Christ  of  human  kindness,  with  no  Judas  to  betray; 
If  upon  our  human  shoulders  grew  perfection's  snowy  wings, 
Love  and  truth,  and  peace  and  mercy,  were  inevitable  things. 

As  it  is,  the  wage  of  battle  leadeth  every  sure  advance; 
Peace  must  follow  in  the  pathway  of  the  sabre  and  the  lance; 
As  it  is,  who  overcometh,  and  the  falchion  doth  swing, 
Single  handed,  against  numbers,  is  the  honored  of  the  king. 

Wrong  may  have  a  healthy  mission,  with  no  ill  to  overcome' 
Heaven  itself,   with  all  its  brightness,  were  but  weariness  of 

doom; 

Never  ending  song  and  chorus,  even  though  before  the  throne, 
Might  make  even  Hades  welcome,  some  respiting  afternoon. 

.But,  where'er  the  struggle  cometh,  for  the  right,  forevermore 
Virtue,   love   and   truth   are   stronger    from    the   contest  than 

before. 

Yet,  who  fights  the  hardest  battle,  may  not  be  for  us  to  know; 
Oft  a  reed  withstands  a  tempest  that  hath  laid  a  forest  low. 


34 


MASONIC. 


So  it  is,  my  worthy  brothers — you  that  came  to  us  in  gray- 
That  we  recognize  as  trophies  from  your  field  of  yesterday. 
Rising  grandly  through  the  shadows  to  the  realms  of  the 

unseen, 
The  forever  spanning  arches  of  this  brotherhood  of  men. 

Simple  though  the  outward  grouping  of    its  legends  and  its 

lore, 

Yet  their  underlying  beauty  men  acknowledge  evermore; 
Spoken  on  the  highest  hill  top,  or  repeated  in  the  glen, 
Evermore  their  kindly  teaching  is  the  brotherhood  of  men. 

Once  beneath  our  friendly  arches,  men  have  never  gone  astray 
For  the  lack  of  chart  and  compass,  or  the  knowledge  of  the 

way; 

Penury  cannot  dismember;  kings  are  but  as  peasants,  when 
They  but  step  within  the  circle  of  this  brotherhood  of  men. 

Not  as  builders  of  this  temple,  oh,  ye  veterans  of  gray,— 
Since    it  had    more    ancient  corners,    are   ye   welcomed   here 

to-day; 

But  as  saviours  and  preservers  in  the  darkened  moments,  when 
But  the  bravest  dared  to  champion  this  brotherhood  of  men. 

Gladly,  then,  as  such  we  hail  you,  and  as  these,  our  guarded 

doors, 

Open  for  your  hearty  welcome  to  our  emblematic  floors, 
Let  us  cast  aside  the  burden  of  our  travels  as  we  can, 
While  we  pledge  anew  to  friendship  and  this  brotherhood  of 

man. 

II. 

"  Things  that  have  been,"  said  Solomon,  "  are  things  that  shall 

be  done," 

Forevermore  there's  "nothing  that  is  new  beneath  the  sun;" 
But  if  our  ancient  craftsman  revisits  human  kind, 
It  may  be  that  the  prophet,  ere  this,  has  changed  his  mind 


MASONIC.  35 

For  this  day  of  days  the  brightest  that  the  world  hath  ever 

seen, 

Taketh  not  a  thing  for  gospel,  because  a  thing  hath  been; 
The  watchword  now  is  "Onward!  "  and  with  each  victory  won, 
It  turns  again  to  something  that  is  "  new  beneath  the  sun." 

Our   craft    should    be    progressive,    since    its    mission    is    to 

build, — 

It's  mortar  better  tempered,  its  workmen  better  skilled, — 
So  that  every  day's  advancement,  with  the  finished  block  in 

place, 
Shall,  the  structure  lifting  higher,  have  some  new  and  added 

grace. 

I  am  not  so  old  as  many,  but  I've  lived  to  see  and  know, 
The  hand  that  works  so  plainly  in  all  things  here  below; 
Jehovah,  God,  or  Allah, — whate'er  the  spoken  name, 
In  "  Wisdom"  it  is  written  forevermore  the  same. 

There   hath    been    some   strange   mutations   in   this   world    of 

living  men; 
Cherished    idols    have   been    shattered  that   forevermore    had 

been 

From  the  soul  emancipated;  e'en  the  ancient  shackles  drop, 
As  the  "jealous  God"  of  Moses  cometh  down  from   Sinai's 

top, 
With  the  outstretched  hand  of  kindness,  and  a  smile  upon  his 

brow, 
To  uplead  his  erring  children  from  their  wandering's  below. 

I   have   heard   the  voice   of    angels,  felt  the  wafting  of  their 

wings, 
And   have   known   the  consolation  that  their  gentle  presence 

brings; 
E'en    death's    shrouding   veil    is    parted,    and    the    "  traveller 

returns  " 
To  dry  the  tear  of  sorrow  and  to  comfort  who  that  mourns. 


36  MASONIC. 

I  have  seen  the  arms  of  genius  e'en  the  earth  itself  enfold; 
Lightning's  messenger  our  pleasure  from  the  New  World  to  the 

Old; 
Woman's  hand   emancipated   by  the   "  Howe  "  or   "  Singer;  " 

e'en 
Our  daily  bread  upgathered  by  the  "sweat"  of  some  machine! 

Still  the  marching  word  is  "  Onward!  "  victories  yet  are  to  be 

won; 
Every  day  for  aye   discloses    something    "  new   beneath    the 

sun," 

And  it  well  behoves  us,  brothers,  with  the  glory  all  in  sight, 
Not  to  bend  above  our  shadows,  with  our  back  unto  the  light 

III. 

Years  ago  there  came  among  us,   dusty  from  the  traveled  way, 
Men  of  gentle,  loving  presence,  who  are  with  us  yet  to-day; 
Here  and  there  an   added  furrow,  here  and  there  a  flake  of 

snow, 
Yet  the  same  true-hearted  brothers  that  they  were  ten  years 

ago. 

Some  there  were,  no  longer  with  us,  in  the  search  for  "  further 

light," 
With  their  honors  thick  upon  them,  that  have  vanished  from 

the  sight; 
As,  ere  long,  we  too  shall  vanish,  and  e'en  to  be  as  that  have 

been, 
Yet  shall  not  a  chair  be  vacant  in  this  brotherhood  of  men. 

For,  while  human  strength  is  weakness,  while  is  darkness  on 

our  track, 

While  a  single  burden  resteth   on  a  brother's  pleading  back, 
There  shall  be  of  worthy  craftsmen,  as  forevermore  hath  been, 
Hearts  to  cherish,  hands  to  labor  for  this  brotherhood  of  men. 

Peace  be   with   you,   aged   craftsmen!    joy  to   every  honored 
guest! 


MASONIC.  37 

When  the  shadows  round  are  falling,   and  the  sun   is  in  the 

west, 

May  the  ever  guiding  angel — through  the  journeyings  of  yore, 
That    hath    led — still    lead    and    comfort    in    the   journeyings 

before. 

May   the   fruitage   of    your   labors  bring  contentment    to  the 

breast, 
And  of  all  life's  precious  moments,  may  each  last  one  be  the 

best, 

So  that  as  ye  homeward  travel,  full  of  hopefulness  elate, 
Ye  may  never  doubt  of  welcome  at  the  Temple's  inner  gate. 

Peace   to   all!    and   as  the   evening,  with  its  solemn  shadows 

crowned, 

Is  the  fresh  and  dewy  morning  to  a  region  just  beyond, 
So,   as   fall   death's  veiling  shadows,  and  the  waiting  portals 

swing, 
May  our  evening  prove  the  morning  in  the  kingdom  of  the 

King. 


THE  RELIGION  OF  MASONRY. 


READ    AT    THE    REUNION    OF    THE    VETERANS    IN    NEW    HAVEN,     l882. 

I. 

IF  "  Old  Hiram  were  so  minded,  what  a  story  could  be  told 
Of  the  many  strange  mutations — of  the  happenings  of  old 
Liberty  in  deadly  struggle,  with  the  tyrant  of  the  seas — 
Victory  upon  her  standard,  and  her  flag  upon  the  breeze. 

Days  that  came  of  plotting  treason,  when  old  Hickory  Jackson 

swore, 
He  would  hang — by  the  Eternal? — high   as  Haman  hanged  of 

yore, 


38  MASONIC. 

Every  traitor  that — wherever  found  upon  Columbia's  shores, — 
With  impious  feet  should  trample  down  his  country's  flag,  and 
ours. 

Later  on,  that  mighty  battle  for  the  manhood  of  a  race, 

That   hath   purged   that   periled   banner  from  the  blot  of   its 

disgrace; 

That  hath  lifted  it  so  grandly  that  the  story  of  its  birth, 
Is  the  story  of  a  nation  that  is  proudest  of  the  earth. 

It  is  fitting  that  these  "old  men"  who  yet  linger  on  the  stage, 
Should   come   up   unto   this  temple   with  the  staff    of    "  very 

age;" 

So  to  get  faint  indication  of  the  temples  that  may  rise, 
When  the  pilgrimage  is  ended,  in  the  morning  of  the  skies. 

Tell  me,  venerable  Brothers,  ye  that  signed  in  thirty-two, 
That  appeal  and  declaration,  tell  me  truly,  then  did  you, 
Ever  with  forecasting  vision,  see  yourselves  with  favored  feet, 
Standing  'neath  the  noble  "arches  "  of  a  temple  so  complete  ? 

In  this  day  of  light  and  freedom  we  can  little  comprehend 
The  courage  that  was  needed  these  your  altars  to  defend! 
Belied  and  persecuted  by  the  pow'rs  of  Church  and  State: 
Upon  every  side  the  venom,  and  the  mutterings  of  hate? 

Looking  outward  from  the  places  of  their  secrecy  profound, 
From  the   hill-tops, — from  the  valleys, — from  their  chambers 

underground; 
Of   the    struggles    of    its    craftsmen,    its    bright    standard    to 

uphold, — 
If  old  Hiram  were  so  minded,  what  a  story  could  be  told! 

E'en  there  is  a  loving  story — unto  glory  evermore 

Of  the  hearts  that  have  been  lightened  by  these  workingmen 

of  yore: 
Of    the    doings   of    the  right   hand— by   the   left  hand    never 

known, 
That  have  gone  up  as  an  incense  to  the  One  upon  the  Throne! 


MASONIC.  39 

Were   it   not   so,   could  our  Order  e'er  have  prospered  in  the 

land? 

Men  are  slow  not  in  perceiving  as  to  what  is  in  the  hand 
That    extendeth    for  their    friendship — or   for    wordliness,  or 

greed,— 
Or  the  great  unselfish  mercy  that  contributes  to  their  need. 

But  we  must  not  be  exclusive.   Lo!  a  tempest  in  the  sky! 
Life'is  periled  in  the  breakers!  "  Help,  oh,  help  us!"  is  the  cry, 
Through  the  storm  cloud  do  we  answer,  "are  you  of  our  clan, 

or  creed  ? " 
Nay;    'tis   ours  to   man  the  life  boat,  and  go  dashing  to  the 

need. 

It  is  ours  to  keep  the  life  boat  ready  manned  upon  the  shore, 
With  an  eye  upon  the  breakers,  and  a  hand  upon  the  oar; 
For  that  Charity  is  heartless  that,  in  this  poor  world  of  sin, 
Never  thinks,  but  in  regalia,  of  the  brotherhood  of  men. 

*  II. 

Men  hold  up  their  hands  in  horror,  at  some  venerable  form 
That   they  feel  quite   sure   was  moulded  in  a  region   that  is 

warm; 

And  they  shudder  and  they  shiver,  as  they  talk  of  spirits  dire, 
That  we  summon  'round  our  victims  as  they  broil  upon  the 

fire! 

'But    we'll    bear    each   other    witness — "Hiram"    and    "King 

Hiram  "  too — 

That  the  "  spirits  "  from  our  councils  were  abolished  long  ago; 
We  will  bear  each  other  witness  that  the  "  horrid   things  "  we 

swear, 
Only  lead  up  to  the  level  of  a  life  upon  the  square:— 

E'en  that  noble  square  of  Friendship,  that  we  know  is  from 

above, 
On  whose  great   four  sides  are  written   Faith,  Hope,  Charity 

and  Love! 

Aye,  and  this  I  venture  for  you,  that,  however  you  profess, 
Or  deny  some  ancient  doctrine  for  a  brother  in  distress. 


40  MASONIC. 

Down  the  hand  goes  to  the  pocket;  up  a   tear  swells  to   the 

eye; 

And,  until  the  one  is  emptied,  is  the  other  never  dry; 
For  we  make  it  our   religion — yours,   my  brother,  yours  and 

mine, 
So  to  follow  out  the  precepts  of  that  Masonry  divine, 

Which  doth  hold  all  men  as.  brothers,  tho'  they  stand  without 

the  door; 

That  hath  pity  for  the  erring,  and  a  shilling  for  the  poor; 
And  we  never  need  be  doubtful  of  the  fruitage  to  his  share, 
Who  exemplifies  our  teachings  of  the  level  and  the  square. 

Though   the  pathway   may  be  rugged  that  Apprentices  must 

tread, 
'Tis  the  same — and  ever  must  be — where  the  Master  hath  been 

led; 

For,  within  our  friendly  borders,  is  there  never  caste  or  clan; 
All  that  Masonry  considers  is  the  Stature  of  the  MAX. 

III. 

How  like  coarse  untempered  mortar  is  this  story  of  our  years! 
Sands  of  hope  and  disappointment — joy  and  sorrow;  bitter 

tears; 

E'en  these  fleshly  walls  uplifted — how  they  crumble  to  decay; 
Like  the  cities  of  an  army  that  are  builded  for  a  day. 

Yet,  is  life  less  worth  the  living  ?  Every  fleeting  moment  dies 
But  to  live  in  something  better — something  nearer  to  the  skies; 
Even  where  the  heavens  are  bending  to  some  distant  horizon, 
Endeth  but  our  present  vision;  Life  has  something  farther  on. 

True,   oft   cometh  pain   and  sorrow,  with  the  tolling    of    the 

bell; 

But  it  seems  to  me,  most  truly,  that  it  hath  been  ordered  well; 
It  is  but  the  flesh  that  quivers  when  the  arrow  hath  been 

thrown — 
King  of  pain  and  king  of  sorrow,  sits  the  spirit  on  the  throne. 


MASONIC.  41 

In  the  line  upon  the  forehead, — in  the  silver  of  the  hair; 
In  the  halting  of  the  footsteps,  though  is  warning  everywhere, 
It  is  but  the  call  from  labor  to  refreshment;  from  the  East 
It  is  but  the  three  times  calling  of  the  Master  to  the  feast. 

Why  should  then  our  hearts  be  troubled  ?  With  our  feet  upon 

the  line; 

With  the  compasses  uncovered  on  the  page  of  the  divine! 
Casting  out  all  mere  pretences — he  shall  rank  as  of  the  good, 
Who  doth   hold   this  creed,    unbroken, — God,  and  truth,  and 

brotherhood. 

For,  of  all  the  world's  religions,  that  in  time  was  e'er  begun, 
This,  the  elder,  must  forever  be  the  true,  unchanging  one! 
Mythologic  forms  may  vanish!  altars  crumble  to  decay! 
But  shall  this  great  love  religion,  never,  never  pass  away. 


TWO  VACANT  CHAIRS. 


w 


READ    AT    ANNUAL    REUNION    OF    VETERANS  AT  BRIDGEPORT,    JUNE  23,   l886. 

'HEN  first  I  sang,  in  bygone  years, 

Of  silver  hairs,  to  veteran  ears, 
Not  one  frost-line  among  mine  own 
Had  Time's  relentless  fingers  sown. 
And  yet,  to-day,  my  mirror  tells 
A  tale  at  which  the  heart  rebels — 
A  tale  of  years — of  vanished  youth; 
And  yet,  despite  the  larger  growth, 
I  find  myself  as  but  a  boy 
And  tickled  with  the  merest  toy. 
True,  months  wear  out;  the  seasons  pass; 
And  once  a  year,  Time  turns  the  glass; 
Yet,  comes  with  Hope,  as  to  beguile, 
The  bright  new  year.     And  with  a  smile 
Its  friendly,  handsome  face  upon, 
The  greeting  gives — "  How  are  you,  John  ?  " 


42  MASONIC. 

I  think  there's  something  in  the  faith 
That  saith  to  men,  "  there  is  no  death." 
Twixt  the  Without,  and  the  Within, 
The  veil,  to  me,  grows  daily  thin. 
And  yet  I  know  that  with  each  morn 
Men  go  from  sight — as  men  are  born; 
On  crutch  or  staff  at  halting  pace 
Old  Age  departs,  while,  in  its  place 
An  infant  comes  with  toddling  gait 
To  tread  the  same  great  round  of  fate: 
To  slumber  in  some  lonely  spot, 
As  it  forgets  to  be  forgot. 

What,  then,  is  life  ?     The  child  replies, 
"A  hundred  years  beneath  the  skies! 
A  time  to  dance;  a  time  to  sing; 
A  time  for  joy — perpetual  Spring!  " 

"A  hundred  years  ?  "  retorts  the  old: 

"Tis  but  a  tale  too  quickly  told! 

We  gather  wealth  to  lay  it  down, 

With  not  a  crust  to  call  our  own. 

The  very  roof,  above  our  head, 

Is  simply  borrowed  from  the  dead. 

Each  corner  lot  of  village  ground 

A  dozen  vanished  men  have  owned; 

As  other  men,  when  we  are  cold, 

Will  by  the  same  frail  tenure  hold. 

The  Spring-time  hath  a  treacherous  glow,. 

That  endeth  with  perpetual  snow; 

For  every  flower  some  nipping  frost; 

For  every  hope,  some  treasure  lost." 

So  thought,  perhaps,  one  that,  to-day, 
Is  missing  from  our  line  of  gray; — 
One,  for  himself,  that  could  not  see 
Behind  the  clouds  of  mystery, — 
And  back  of  things  of  time,  and  sense — 
(rod's  waiting  crown  of  recompense. 


MASONIC.  43 

E'en  that  could  not,  he  thought,  receive 
As  truth,  what  others  might  believe, 
On  claimed  revealments  from  the  sky — 
While  living  they,  as  'twere  a  lie. 

Perhaps' he  ought;  yet,  after  all, 
What  Whipple  thought  was  matter  small, 
Compared  with — that  he  hewed  the  rock 
Giv'n  to  his  hand,  so  that  the  block, 
Carved  from  its  depths,  at  least,  did  bear, 
The  Master's  verdict,  "True  and  square." 
Though  holding  not  to  others'  creeds, 
He  wrote  his  own  in  generous  deeds. 
With  sturdy  grip  upon  the  right, 
No  power  of  men  could  him  affright, 
Or  move  him  from — as  understood — 
The  strictest  path  of  rectitude. 

These  were  his  virtues.     Ills  to  find 
I  leave  to  him  that  hath  not  sinned. 

Another  saith,  "  On  looking  back 

I  only  see  a  flowery  track. 

True,  thorns  have  been,  yet  from  my  way, 

By  patient  hand  were  swept  away, 

Or,  at  the  least,  wherever  grown, 

By  vigorous  feet  were  trodden  down. 

At  night  I  close  my  lattice  bars 

And  live,  in  dreams,  beyond  the  stars. 

With  morning  light,  I  lift  mine  eyes 

And  worship  'neath  the  arching  skies. 

Where'er  I  go,  some  hopeful  word 
About  the  "  farther  on  "  is  heard 
From  myriad  lips,  bespeaking  love. 
And  life  in  some  Grand  Lodge  above. 
"  Life!  loving  life,  a  rosy  ray!  " 
So  sang  the  bard  and  passed  away 
From  home,  and  lodge,  and  sight  of  men, 
Our  craftsman  true — dear  "Brother  Glen." 


44  MASONIC. 

From  manhood's  prime,  to  nigh  four-score, 
He  trod,  upright,  our  chequered  floor; 
E'er  gave  his  hand  to  cheerful  toil, 
Content  with  what  of  corn  and  oil 
Fell  to  his  share.     Loving  and  loved, 
In  every  sphere  his  presence  proved 

A  gladsome  ray, 
That  brightened  till  it  passed  away. 

"Glendining's  dead!  "  one  bard  hath  sung; 
Another  holds  the  saying  wrong, 

If  to  our  friend 
It  so  was  meant  that  came  the  end. 

'Twere  better  said 
That  such  as  he  are  never  dead. 
They  live  in  word,  and  work,  and  deed — 

Exemplars,  bright,  for  other's  heed. 
Nay,  more  than  this;  beyond  the  veil, 
Responding  to  their  worthy  hail, 
The  gates  swing  wide.     And  'neath  the  arch 
Of  Heav'ns  expansive  skies,  the  march 
Of  such  go  on  from  height  to  height, 
In  search  of  light — Goal's  wond'rous  Light. 
****** 

We  look  the  chapel  window  through 
To  find  the  landscape  cold  and  blue. 
We  raise  the  sash,  and  quick  is  seen 
The  landscape  bright  with  gold  and  green. 
Like  croakers  in  some  dismal  oak, 
No  time  have  we  to  sit  and  croak, 
Of  things  that  die,  while  on  the  air, 
Life,  throbbing  life,  is  everywhere. 

With  us  the  sash  is  up,  good  friends; 
No  weird  blue  glass  its  falsehood  lends 
To  mar  our  pleasure,  or  destroy 
The  sunshine  of  our  social  joy. 


.MASONIC.  45 


The  sash  is  up!     And  friendship's  ray 
Comes  stealing  softly  in,  to-day, 
To  fill  the  soul,  while  forth  extends 
The  greeting  hand  'twixt  loving  friends, 
Who,  as. they  part,  say  not  "farewell," 
That  saddest  word  that  tongue  can  tell; 
But  who,  and  simply,  at  the  door, 
Repeat  the  sweeter  AU  RKVOIR, 
Which  saith,  to  soothe  the  parting  pain, 
"Good-bye,  until  we  meet  again." 


vor  AND  i. 


D 


RKAI)    AT    THK    KETXFOX    OF    THE    VETERANS    AT    NEW    BRITAIN,     1887. 

(OWX  the  rapid  river  drifting, 

Day  by  day, 
Scenes  are  changing,  sands  are  shifting, 

Every  day. 

Xo\v  and  then  some  treasure  missing: — 
Lips  refuse  the  proffered  kissing, 
Yet,  withal,  there  comes  a  blessing, 

Every  day. 

He  of  our  great  pity  needeth, 

Underneath, 
Every  line  of  life  that  readeth 

But  of  death; 

On  discouraged  oar  reclining: 
Coming  ill,  for  aye  divining — 
Giving  up  to  tearful  whining 

Every  breath. 

Could  our  vision,  outward-  reaching 

From  the  shore, 
See  the  realms  of  beauty  stretching 

On  before; 


46  MASONIC. 

Could  we  note  how  scenes  around  us, 
That  so  long  hath  cramped  and  bound  us, 
Pale  before  the  bright  beyond  us, 

You  and  I. 
t 

Scarce  would  reck  how  swift  the  speeding 

Of  the  years — 
Scarce  would  count,  as  now,  with  dreading, 

Graying  hairs; 

From  the  surely  coming  morrow, 
Hope  and  comfort  would  we  borrow, 
So  to  banish  many  a  sorrow, 

You  and  I. 

With  our  faces  up  and  onward 

Tow'rd  the  light — 
Through  dispelling  shadows  sunward, 

Through  the  night. 
With  a  cheerful  step,  my  brother, — 
Sun,  or  storm,  no  matter  whether — 
Every  year  we'd  come  together, 

You  and  I. 

Breast  to  breast  to  feel  the  beating 

Of  the  heart; 
Mouth  to  ear,  fraternal  greeting 

To  impart; 

Hand  to  back,  for  love's  embracing; 
Feet  upon  one  level  placing, 
All  unkindly  thought  effacing — 

You  and  I. 

There  is  something  grand  in  living 

To  the  line, 
Just  beyond  which  opens  to  us 

The  divine; 

In  our  dealings  with  each  other — 
Conscience  nevermore  to  smother — 
Loving  God,  and  one  another, 

You  and  1. 


MASONIC.  47 

What  if  fortune  frown  upon  us, 

Night  and  morn? 
What  if  daily  toil  hath  won  us 

No  return? 

There's  a  wealth  of  treasures  many, 
Backed  with  but  a  crust,  or  penny, 
That  can  make  us  rich  as  any, 

Bye  and  bye. 

Naked  though  be  our  condition — 

Blind  and  poor: 
We  have  but  to  make  petition 

At  the  door, 

And,  if  worthy  found  and  trusty— 
Though  perhaps  a  trifle  rusty— 
We  shall  find  a  welcome  waiting 

At  the  door. 

Do  we  find  an  added  furrow 

Neath  the  crown? 
Let  us  hope  that  for  the  morrow 

Hath  been  sown 
In  it  something  for  fruition, 
In  some  not  far  off  elysian, 
So  to  better  gain  position, 

Near  the  throne. 

Doubtless  many  a  head  is  whiter 

With  the  snow 
Than,  when  heart  and  step  was  lighter, 

Years  ago: 

But  if  with  the  steady  changing 
Cometh  but  from  ill  estranging, 
Trust  the  rest  to  God's  arranging, 

You  and  I. 

True,  we  find  of  broken  columns, 

On  its  way 
Goes  the  fun'ral  march,  and  solemn, 

Every  day. 


MASONIC. 

"  Dust  to  dust  "  the  words  repeating, 
With  a  grim  half-hungry  greeting 
Stands  the  sexton,  calmly  waiting 
For  his  prey. 

"  Next,"  he  cries,  and  tears  fraternal 

Dim  the  eye, 
Hands  are  clasped,  and  lips  that  tremble 

Say  good  bye, 

Just  as  if  the  soul,  departing, 
Went  no  further  than  the  starting- 
Stopped  the  journey  with  its  starting 

For  the  sky! 

Yet,  as  Masons,  if  our  living 

Hath  been  right, 
WThy  for  us  should  be  misgiving 

For  the  night? 
Charity  our  working  leaven, 
.Facing  toward  the  arching  heaven, 
Up  we  go,  "  Three,  Five,  and  Seven, 

Tow'rd  the  light. 

What  if  many  be  thought  deficient 

Form  or  creed? 
Substance  should  be  held  sufficient 

For  our  need, 

So  that  outcasts  from  each  other, 
Nevermore  be  friend  and  brother, 
Loving,  living  for  each  other, 

You  and  I. 


MASONIC.  49 

A  POEM. 


RKAI>    AT    THK     INSTALLATION    OK    OKKICKRS    OF    KINO    HIUAM     LOIM1K,     IN 
HIRMINdllAM,     T87O. 

TITHE  poet's  pen  sometimes  will  deal  in  fiction — 
L          Sometimes  to  themes  more  serious,  tunes  the  lay; 
To-night,  good  friends,  while  giving  benediction, 
It  weaves  for  you  the  epic  of  to-day. 

Although  the  past  is  rich  in  admonition, 

No  backward  glance  should  mar  a  scene  like  this; 

And  though  the  future  promises  fruition, 

Enough  for  us  shall  be  the  present  bliss. 

Why  vaunt  the  past?     Its  mystical  traditions, 
Like  bones  exhumed,  fast  crumble  to  decay; 

While  the  dark  shadows  of  its  superstitions 

Start  back  affrighted  from  the  bright  to-day. 

Its  mumbled  creeds  no  more  should  mock  or  blind  us, 
With  shallow  'semblance  of  the  righteous  way; 

We  face  the  light;  the  darkness  lies  behind  us, 
On  this  the  morning  of  the  great  to-day. 

In  all  God's  plans  no  step  is  falsely  taken; 

'Tis  evil  only  that  goeth  to  decay; 
The  good,  though  slumbering,  surely  will  awaken, 

With  gathered  brightness  for  the  coming  day. 

The  olden  time,  its  laws  and  constitutions, 
We  may  revere,  though  we  do  not  obey; 

The  present  age  asks  for  its  institutions, 

Not  what  they  were,  but  what  they  are  to-day. 

Age  is  not  wisdom,  though  wise  men  may  be  aged; 

The  tree  is  judged  by  th'  sweetness  of  its  fruit; 
What  e'er  with  wrong,  a  battle  hath  not  waged, 

The  coming  day  shall  wither  to  the  root. 


50  MASONIC. 

We  travel  "east;  "  "more  light  "  is  our  petition, 

More  strength  to  tread  life's  rough  and  rugged  way; 

More  love,  and  less  of  grovelling  ambition, 
To  mark  and  mar  the  progress  of  to-day. 

Let  us  be  patient!     Time  turns  no  backward  pages; 

The  good  time  cometh,  though  long  upon  the  way; 
Let  us  be  hopeful!     In  the  Temple  of  the  ages, 

The  best  work,  and  grandest,  are  the  arches  of  to-day. 


Yet  methinks  that  we  shall  find — 

If  to  search  we  are  inclined — 

That  our  social  Temple — founded   though   on  truth's   eternal 
rock; 

And  by  master  workmen  planned, 

Still  was  built  by  'prentice  hand, 
And  the  polish  still  is  wanting,  upon  each  and  every  block. 

While,  within  its  living  doors, 

On  the  tessellated  floors, 

Lies  the  rubbish,  which  the  centuries  have  gathered  on  their 
way; 

And  we'll  find  enough  to  do — 

Working  faithfully  and  true — 
To  polish  up  our  'prentice  work  and  clear  the  dust  away. 

For  however  much  we  may 

Boast  the  fruitage  of  to-day, 
Still,  the  worm  of  human  frailty  gnaweth  steady  at  the  core; 

And,  with  all  our  pomp  and  pride, 

It  can  never  be  denied 
That  want  and  degradation,  like  a  dog,  lies  at  the  door. 

Though  the  city  spires  on  high, 

Lift  their  fingers  to  the  sky, 

Yet    beneath   their    solemn    shadows,    dark     purlieus    of    sin 
abound; 

Where  amid  the  cellar's  grime, 

Crouching  misery  and  crime, 
Gaunt  and  ghastly,  ripens  into  bad  fruition,  underground. 


MASONIC.  51 

And  where  e'er  we  turn  our  feet, 
All  along  the  crowded  street, 
Gilded  dens  breath  hot  pollution,  from  their  teeming  depths 

below; 

Where  for  freely  proffered  gold, 
Human  hearts  are  bought  and  sold — 

Bought  from  paths  of  peace  and  virtue — sold  to  wretchedness 
and  woe. 

Where  the  ghouls  of  lust  do  fatten, 

'Mong  the  robes  of  silk  and  satin 
Whirling  'neath  the  gaslit  splendor  of  some  Capitolean  hall; 

Men  who  make  the  laws  for  millions, 

Take  the  corners  of  cotillions, 
Side  by  side  with  undressed  beauty,  ripened  ready  for  the  fall. 

E'en  among  our'happier  homes, 

Painted  vice  too  often  comes, 
Clasping  innocence  and  beauty  in  its  leprous  embrace; 

Where  amid  life's  giddy  whirl, 

Lost  is  many  a  precious  pearl,    . 

Soiled    in  many  a  robe   of    whiteness  in  the  heat  of  passion's 
race. 

What  with  soirees  and  levees, 
Masquerades  and  matinees, 
From  the  chimes  of  Christmas  morning,  to  the  tolling  bells  of 

Lent; 

In  the  halls  of  shoddied  wealth, 
Ignoring  all  the  laws  of  health, 

Night    is    made    one    lengthened    revel — day,    one    round    of 
discontent. 

While  across  the  ocean  bed, 

Flashing  through  a  tiny  thread, 
Comes  the  sound  of  battled  legions  on  the  field  of  yesterday; 

Now  the  topple  of  a  throne, 

Now  a  soldier's  dying  moan — 
Rachael  weeping  for  her  children — such  the  message  of  to-day. 


^2  MASONIC. 

Vet  we  never  need  despair, 

Better  things  are  in  the  air- 
Wrongs  are  but  the  incidentals  which  occur  upon  the  way; 

We  are  heading  to  the  light, 

We  are  living  tow'rcl  the  right, 

And  the  coming   man    shall    harvest  from    the    seed    we    sou 
to-day. 

Here  I,  perhaps,  should  stop;  and  yet 
'Twere  quite  ungallant  to  forget 

Our  guests,  whose  pretty  faces, 
Around  our  festive  board  to-night, 
Like  fair  exotics,  cheer  our  sight 

And  lend  the  sweetest  graces. 

What  shall  I  say,  and  how  begin  ? 
Ye  muses,  take  my  laggard  pen, 

•     And  dipping  it  in  glory, 
Write  lovely  woman's  spotless  name 
Most  blessed  on  the  scroll  of  fame, 
While  I  relate  a  story. 

When  in  his  lonely,  first  estate, 
Man  sat  within  the  garden  gate, 

And  counted  o'er  each  blessing, 
With  which  his  happiness  was  crowned, 
By  Heaven's  providing  hand,  he  found 

One  precious  thing  was  missing. 

Though  lord  was  he  of  fowl  and  brute, 
Though  free  to  pluck  of  flow'r  and  fruit, 

Whose  names  indeed  were  legion, 
No  loving  hand  was  there,  you  see, 
To  make  his  toast  and  pour  his  tea, 

In  all  that  blessed  region. 

So,  one  day,  sleeping  in  his  tent, 
Old  father  Adam  underwent 
A  certain  operation, 


MASONIC. 

By  which  a  spare  rib  from  his  side, 
Presto!    became  a  blushing  bride, 

Or  some  such  new  relation. 

When  Adam  woke,  with  glad  surprise 
He  rubbed  his  half  bewildered  eyes, 

And  at  the  quick  suggestion 
Of  some  one  near,  no  matter  who, 
(I'll  guess  his  name  and  so  may  you,) 

He  straightway  popped  the  question. 

Eve  looked  around,  and  at  a  glance, 
She  saw  there  was  no  better  chance 

For  love  or  speculation; 
And,  (sad  to  say  it,  though  I  am) 
She  said,  "  I  do  not  care  A — dam, 

I'll  take  the  situation." 

O,  foolish  man;  not  to  have  known, 
That,  letting  well  enough  alone 

Is  best  for  every  mortal; 
Had  he  foreseen  the  end,  I'm  sure 
That  he  had  stopped  at  wedlock's  door, 

Nor  crossed  its  ruby  portal. 

But  human  vision  then  as  now 
Stopped  short  of  wisdom's  gate,  and  so 

The  deed  was  consummated; 
Though  after  all  as  this  world  goes 
In  all  such  matters,  I  suppose, 

They  wer'nt  so  badly  mated. 

She  stood  "  first  lady  "  in  the  land, 

He  made  the  laws  and  gave  command — 

(A  power  he  made  the  most  of;) 
And  as  for  clothes  and  such  like  gear, 
It  does  not  in  the  Word  appear 

That  either  much  could  boast  of. 


MASONIC. 

Her  dry  goods  bills  were  very  small, 
She  wore  no  "jute  "  or  waterfall, 

Like  many  modern — noodles; 
And  though  her  "  pets  "  were  no  great  shakes, 
I  think,  indeed,  her  talking  snakes, 

Were  quite  as  good  as  poodles. 

But  lest  I  tire  you  with  my  verse, 
I  will  not  here  the  tale  rehearse, 

About  their  worst  besetter; 
Eve  made  a  good  wife  in  the  main. 
Though  once,  'tis  said,  she  did  "  raise  Cain," 

But  that  was  ^family  matter. 

She  never  shied  a  flirting  glance, 
She  never  went  to  play  or  dance, 

With  any  man  but  Adam; 
Nor  kept  her  lord  awake  o'nights. 
With  stale  demands  for  "Woman's  Rights," 

Because  she  alwavs  had  'em. 

Fair  daughters  of  the  lovely  Eve, 
Despite  my  nonsense,  I  believe 

In  "  God's  last,  best  creation;  " 
Not  as  a  brawling  partisan, 
Not  an  appendage  made  for  man, 
But  as  a  worker  in  (iod's  plan, 

For  this  poor  world's  salvation. 

And  wheresoe'er  plain  duty  calls, 
In  shop,  or  field,  or  lecture  halls, 

Or  in  the  home  elysian; 
Her  chosen  pathway  to  pursue, 
To  do  the  thing  she  best  can  do, 
Tear  down  the  old,  or  build  the  new, 

She  need  not  ask  permission. 

Then  let  us  all  join  friendly  hands 

Across  this  board  of  social  cheer; 


MASONIC.  55 

And  while  old  Time,  with  plummet,  stands 
To  crown  the  arches  of  the  year, 

We'll  ask  that  he  will  also  lay 

To-night  for  each  and  every  one — 
To  stand  for  many  a  coming  day — 

A  "  Happy  New  Year"  corner  stone. 

And  though,  to-day,  is  still  our  theme, 
'Twere  wisdom  ne'er  to  quite  forget, 

That  while  our  life  is  like  a  dream 

Which  pales  before  the  vision,  yet 

Should  we  as  Masons,  true  and  good, 

This  lesson  of  the  past  time  learn, 
That  who  invests  in  brotherhood 

Receives  at  last  the  best  return. 

Upon  the  sacred  page  we  find 

This  truth  inscribed  above  all  others: 

That  we  as  children  of  one  kind 

And  loving  Father,  should  be  brothers. 

For,  from  the  earth,  alike  we  come, 

To  mother  earth  alike  we  tend ; 
One  path  we  tread,  one  common  home,  • 

Invites  us  at  the  journey's  end. 

There's  not  that  difference  in  the  scale 

Of  human  life  that  some  pretend; 
The  cock  may  flaunt  a  rainbow  tail, 

And  be  a  cockerel  to  the  end. 

High  born,  or  low,  'tis  all  the  same; 

Who  follows  best  God's  righteous  plan 
For  honest  living,  best  may  claim 

The  title  of  a  nobleman. 

Though  humbly  born,  the  "  widow's  son  " 
Upon  a  "  level  "  walked  with  kings; 

By  acting  well  his  part  was  won 

That  prize  which  honest  labor  brings. 


MASONIC. 

Ere  while  from  yonder  crawling  worm, 
An  airy  form  of  beauty  springs, 

So  many  an  humble  human  form 

But  half  conceals  the  angel  wings. 

Let's  have  a  care,  then,  how  we  tread, 
Lest  we  bespoil  some  humble  friend, 

Who  by  a  diff'rent  path  is  led — 

Whose  life  we  may  not  comprehend. 

And  if,  perchance,  some  brother  stray 

From  wisdom's  straight  and  narrow  track, 

Though  Priest  and  Levite  turn  away, 

Be  it  ours  to  lead  the  wand'rer  back. 

One  may  be  weak,  another  strong — - 

E'en  honest  men  may  err  most  blindly; 

And  though  the  deed  itself  be  wrong, 

'Twere  well  to  judge  the  motive  kindly. 

Oh  Masonry!  thrice  honored  art! 

That  buildest  upward  tow'rd  the  sun, 
We'll  follow  still  thine  ancient  chart, 

And  raise  the  temple  stone  by  stone; — 

That  inner  temple  of  the  soul, 

Which  brightens  with  the  ages'  march; 
Where  love  and  truth  shall  find  control, 

And  manhood  crown  life's  Royal  Arch. 


MASONIC.  57 

THE  OLD  AND  THE  NEW. 


RKAI)    AT    THK    CKNTKNNIAL    CELEBRATION    OK    KINC    HIRAM    LOIM1K, 
IMKMINdllAM,     1883. 

WHO  stands,  to-day,  on  yonder  hills,  that  lift  against  the 
South, 

And  hears  the  song  of  industry  that  fills  the  hungry  mouth, — 
The  click  and  clack  of  countless  mills; — may  read  a  wond'rous 

tale 
Of  what  one  hundred  years  have  wrought  to  beautify  the  vale. 

Lo  !  to  the  north,  fair   Paugassuck,  from  mountain  hills,  and 

gray, 

With  willing  hand  to  labor's  wheel,  comes  tripping  on  its  way; 
While  up  the  eastern  valley,  where  suburban  hamlets  lie, 
With  scream  of  gong,  on  rapid  wheel,  the  great  steam  chariots 

fly. 

The  busy  street;  the  churchly  spire;  the  palaces  of  pride; 
The    great    highways,   where    winged    thoughts    on    lightning 

coursers  ride; 

All  these  make  up  a  wonderland,  such  as  they  could  not  know^ 
Who  dwelt  among  these  crowning  hills,  one  hundred  years  ago. 

Yet,  little  have  we  wholly  new.     Events  are  slowly  born. 

To  prescient  eye,  the  shades  of  night  are  pregnant  with  the 

morn; 

The  rivers  waited  but  command — the  coming  of  the  wheel, 
To  set  the  echoes  ringing  to  the  clangor  of  the  steel. 

The  furnace  of  the  future — in  the  quarry  of  the  sires, — 
In  the  clay  yet  to  be  moulded — stood  in  waiting  for  the  fires; 
The  ships  were  in  the  forest,  with  the  cottage,  and  the  spire, 
While  the  lightnings,  ready  harnessed,  stood  impatient  for  the 
wire. 


s;8  MASONIC. 

Call  it  God,  or  evolution;  call  it  fate,  or  call  it  chance; 
Deep  within  the  soul  of  all  things  lies  an  impulse  to  advance; 
As  if,  standing  upon  tiptoe,  Nature,  with  upreachmg  hand, 
From  the  great  store  house  above  her,  some  new  glory  would 
command. 

Stepping  backward  through  the  decades,  look  again  upon  the 

vale  ! 

There  and  here  a  lowly  cottage,  here  and  there  a  snowy  sail. 
Few  and  humble  were  the  toilers  that  did,  then,  the  valleys 

know, 
In  the  dawning  of  the  morning  of  an  hundred  years  ago. 

War  had  sheathed  its  gory  sabre;  whipped,  the  lion  sought  his 

den; 

Tyranny  had  lost  a  battle;  joy  was  in  the  hearts  of  many. 
Yet,   the   taunting   words,  and   bitter,   "rebel,"   "tory,"   left  a 

sting, 
Still   were    kinships   half   divided,  for   the   Congress — for   the 

King.    . 

Back  to  back,  men  stood  in  anger — by  their  burthens  heavy 
bound; 

On  the  field,  conscripted  children  slept  the  battle  sleep,  pro- 
found. 

"Well  enough"  had  been  disrupted,  by  scarce  comprehended 
war; 

Wounds,  like  these,  are  slow  in  healing,  healing  yet  they  leave 
a  scar. 

Churches,  e'en,  of  old  "  established  "  'neath  the  shadow  of  a 

throne, 

Stood  aloof  from  other  churches,  centered  in  themselves  alone. 
Then  it  was  that  Hiram,  lifting,  in  the  vale  its  bannered  sign, 
Underneath  some  mystic  symbol,  taught  of  brotherhood  divine; 


MASONIC. 


59 


[Interior  of  the  old  Lodge  Room  of  King-  Hiram  Lodge.] 

Taught  that  strength  lay  but  in  union — union  with  some  right- 
eous plan; 

Charity  for  all  behind  it — taught  the  brotherhood  of  man. 

Hatred,  malice,  persecution,  all  at  once  upon  the  wing, 

Back  of  each  good  word  and  action,  charged  some  secret,  evil 
thing: 

''Fiendish  orgies!"  "Vile  blasphemies!"  Tales  of  revelry  by 

night  ! 
"  Horrid    oaths    in    secret   conclave !"     "  Shunning    darkness, 

fearing  light  !" 
Though  the  noblest  of  earth's  children  bowed  at  this  Masonic 

shrine — 
Leaders  of  the  great  world's  progress;  priests  and  princes  of 

the  line; 

AYlrit  availed  it?  Human  judgment  warpeth  to  its  day  and 
time; 


60  MASONIC. 

What  to-day  is  spurned  as  worthless,  on  the  morrow  is  sub- 
lime. 

Look  you  !  all  the  great  world  over,  evermore,  it  is  the  same  ! 

Much  ot  zeal,  with  lack  of  knowledge,  makes  the  bigot,  lights 
the  flame. 

Yet,  because  securely  founded  on  the  rock  of  living  truth, 

Masonry,  unscathed,  unblemished,  lives  to  everlasting  youth; 

State  craft,  though  it  storm  and  threaten;  bigots,  though  they 
yet  assail, 

Both  of  Church  and  State  the  ally,  what  against  it  shall  pre- 
vail ? 

Awakening  from  a  century  tomb,  if  but  this  world  of  men 
That  live  to-day — to-morrow  sleep,  may  walk  the  earth  again, 
How  strange  will  -read  the  graven  page,  that,  to  their  wonder- 
ing gaze, 
Shall  tell  the  century's  progress  from  these  half  primeval  days  ! 

Unscathed  by  time,  or  tempest  shock,  uprising  from  the  shore, 
Old  Corum  hills  as  firmly  stand  as  in  the  days  before; 
And  yet,  how  changed  is  all  below  !     A  line  of  silver  sheen — 
Yet  dwindled  to  a  brooklet's  span — Old  Paugassuck  is  seen. 

For,  as  the  forests  clear  away,  and  swampy  wilds  are  tamed, 
The  springs  go  dry — the  falling  rain,  by  envious  skies  reclaimed  ! 
And  yet,  as  fails  th'  accustomed  flood  from  daily  broadening 

shore, 
The   handful   left   proves    stronger,   e'en,   than   all   that   went 

before; 

For,  in  a  single  drop,  'twas  left  for  science  to  reveal 

A   mightier  than   the   clumsy  hand,   that   turned   the   ancient 

wheel. 
E'en  have  the  lightnings  been  subdued;  and  greater  than  of 

yore, 
Their  subtle  forces  have  been  made  the  servants  of  the  poor. 

The  cot  is  lighted  by  their  flame; — its  fuel  e'en  supplied; 
While  swift  upon  electro  steeds  the  hurrying  people  ride; 


MASONIC.  6l 

Or,  in  some  airy  flying  ship,  from  land  to  land  they  go, 
Shaking   the   dust  from   off   their   feet  on   th'  whirling  world 
below. 

E'en  "dust  to  dust  "  no  longer  means  a  feasting  for  the  worm, 
For,  in  cremation's  funeral  urn — in  concentrated  form — 
Wives,  husbands,  take   the  parlor   shelf,  the   household    gods 

among, 
Till,  by  successors,  stored  away — unhonored  and  unsung. 

Woman,  at  last,  the  ballot  holds.     Obedient  to  her  will, 
Folds  up  his  tent  and  steals  away,  the  demon  of  the  Still; 
While,  as  of  things  but  scarce  believed,  is  pointed  out  some 

den, 
Where  men,  by  law,  once  sold  permit  to  drown  the  souls  of 

men  ! 

E'en   hath   been   proved   the   maxim   false,  that   prateth    of  a 

bourne, 

In  some  beyond,  and  far  away,  from  which  none  may  return. 
Life,  life  beyond,  the  ages'  hope,  breaks  full  upon  the  sight, 
While  death,  itself,  but- lifts  the  veil,  and  leads  us  to  the  light  ! 

So,  brothers,  as  King  Hiram  starts,  on  new  centennial  way, 
We  sketch  the  past — e'en  as  we  can,  forecast  the  future  day; 
Yet  should  we  not  forget,  indeed,  that,  greatest  our  concern 
Is  with  the  present  moment — that,  by  living,  we  should  learn 

To  make  our  craft  the  keystone,  that  shall  bind  the  mighty 

arch 
Through  which,  toward  the  kingdom,  shall  the  coming  ages 

march; 
To   climb,   ourselves,   the   mystic   stair,   so — helping    hand   to 

reach 
To  brother's  hand,  stretched  from   below — we  practice  what 

we  preach. 

For,  are  we  not  on  trial  ?     E'en  King  Hiram  yet  is  young, 
An  hundred  years  as  nothing  count  eternities  among; 


62 


MASONIC 


[Interior  of  the  Present  Lodge  Room  of  King;  Hiram  Lodge.] 

The   Great  All   Seeing  Eye,  above,   looks  down   with  jealous 

care, 
While  justice  takes  our  daily  block  and  tries  it  by  the  square. 

As  workmen,  on  the  muster  roll,  each  one  must  take  his  place 
In  just  proportion,  as  he  builds  to  honor,  or  disgrace; 
As  he  shall  hew  to  selfishness,  uncharity  and  wrong, 
Or,  to  the  kindlier  graces  that  to  brotherhoods  belong. 

To  keep  our  manhood  full  in  view,  our  passions  in  control; 
To  hold  the  flesh  subservient  to  the  welfare  of  the  soul; 
First,  to  be  pure;  then  peaceable;  then  sober,  upright,  true, 
Is  what  our  Masonry  should  mean,  to  me,  my  friend,  and  you 


MASONIC.  63 

Within  its  holy  Temple,  then,  before  its  sacred  shrine, 

Dare  not  to  bring  rough  sandaled   feet,  that  cannot  walk  the 

line 

Of  perfect  soberness  of  life;  much  less,  if  on  thy  hands — 
Through  that  which  makes  his  feet  to  trip — thy  brother's  fail- 
ure stands. 

All    hail   to    thee,    King    Hiram  !      Be   thy    years   with    honor 

crowned, 

In  the  widow's  tearful  blessing,  as  the  centuries  shall  round; 
Teach  thy  craftsmen  to  stand   upright;  on  the  level — by  the 

plumb, 

To  the  voice  of  God  and  duty,  that  they  nevermore  be  dumb, 
So,  as  with  each  dawn,  the  shadows  of  the  night  shall  clear 

away, 
From  the  East  shall  come  the  morning  of  a  brighter,  better 

dav. 


BURNS  TO  HIS  FRIENDS. 


RESPONSE   TO    THE    TOAST    "ROBERT    BURNS,"    OIVKN    AT   A    MASONIC    CELE- 
BRATION   OF    THAT    POET'S    BIRTHDAY,    IN    BIRMINGHAM. 

FROM  warlds  aboon  the  earth  and  moon, 
To  this  gude  brithers'  meeting, 
Wi'  kindly  ward,  auld  Scotia's  bard 

Wad  bring  fraternal  greeting. 
E'en,  bending  o'er  this  mystic  floor, 

Wi'  craftsmen  a'  sae  civil, 
Wad  tak  a  han'  for  brither  man, 

Wi'  plumb,  and  square,  and  level. 

But,  harkee,  frien'!     Do  ye  na'  ken 

That  whom  ye  wad  be  toasting, 
Not  lang  aback  the  lads  in  black 

Were  ready  for  the  roasting? 


64  MASONIC. 

Such  sinfu'  lout  as  they  made  out 
The  rhyming  Highland  laddie, 

Should  scarce  expect  the  warld's  elect 
To  gie  the  han'  sae  ready. 

Hae  ye  forgat  of  proverbs,  that 

Aboot  the  birds  o'  feather? 
What  matter,  though,  or  yes,  or  no, 

If  but  who  meet  together 
Shall  drink  the  wine  of  peace  divine 

In  love's  unstinted  measure? 
If  naught  of  ill  shall  e'er  infill 

Our  cup  of  social  pleasure? 

Forevermore!  •    Forevermore! 

How  lang  they  dwelt  upon  it! 
A  thousand  years  of  woe  and  tears, 

And  Rab  had  just  begun  it  ! 
For  so,  alack,  the  lads  in  black 

Made  woeful  declaration; 
But,  dinna  ken  ?  there  must  hae  been 

Some  slight  miscalculation; 

For  through  the  dark,  nor  care  nor  cark 

To  make  his  han'  unsteady, 
Wi'  self-respect,  head  full  erect, 

Went  out  your  Highland  laddie, 
Firm  in  belief  that  every  sheaf 

Wi'  human  limitation, 
That  he  might  bring  before  the  King, 

Wad  meet  wi'  approbation. 

For  conscious  sin,  it  might  hae  been 

That  he  had  some  misgiving, 
When  in  the  dust  the  sexton  thrust 

His  carcase  from  the  living; 
But  soon  on  high  his  raptured  eye 

Beheld  the  gate  immortal, 
And  all  along,  a  surging  throng 

Up  crowding  to  the  portal. 


MASONIC.  65 

Wi'  mony  an  old  slave  king  of  gold, 

Wi'  tithes  long  time  defaulted, 
And  human  owls — conceited  fowls! — 

Wi'  pious  face  exalted, 
Each,  nature  bent,  wi'  full  intent 

To  smuggle  through  the  portal, 
From  customs  clear,  such  warldly  gear 

As  had  survived  the  mortal. 

While  each  proclaimed  himself,  and  named 

The  deeds  on  which  were  resting 
His  claim  to  grace,  or  special  place 

Of  honor  at  the  feasting, 
Poor  Robbie  sat,  without  the  gate, 

Sae  humbly  at  the  portal, 
Nor  dared  recall  one  thing  of  all 

His  doings  in  the  mortal. 

St.  Peter  took  his  ancient  book, 

And  read  this  general  order: 
"Who  enters  here,  no  burthens  bear 

Across  the  shining  border; 
No  filthy  lust  for  golden  dust; 

No  pride  of  wealth,  or  station; 
Or  unco'  zeal  for  heavenly  weal 

Through  some  puir  soul's  cremation. 

"  Who  enters  here  are  such  as  wear 

The  garments  of  that  meekness — 
In  some  good  way,  that  comes  for  aye 

From  conscious  human  weakness." 
Then  in  the  book  he  bade  him  look, 

And  where  had  been  recorded 
Ben  Adhem's  name,  lo!  by  the  same 

Was  place  for  him  accorded. 


Though  often  wrang,  my  song  I  sang— 
I  make  nae  idle  boasting — 


66  MASONIC. 

As  heart  inclined,  for  human  kind, 

Nor  feared  a  final  roasting. 
For  great  or  sma'  the  King  of  a', 

The  unco'  righteous  scorning, 
Full  well  I  knew  wad  give  the  true 

His  welcome  in  the  morning. 

The  lads  in  black  got  mony  a  whack 

For  mony  a  provocation; 
Not  that  I  thought  the  things  they  taught 

Bore  not  some  good  relation 
To  honest  truth.     Yet  why,  forsooth, 

I  asked,  should  bardie  clever, 
By  Satan's  rod  be  sairly  prod 

Forever  and  forever  ? 

Sic  wrang,  indeed,  by  man  decreed 

To  ony  erring  mortal 
Wad  bring  the  houn'  of  justice  down, 

An'  kick  him  from  the  portal. 
For  why  the  name  of  justice  shame 

Wi'  mercy  less  than  human  ? 
In  fierce  alarm,  need  heav'n  to  arm 

Against  the  seed  of  woman  ? 

Though  at  the  gate  men  choose  to  wait, 

What  harm  to  the  Creator  ? 
Tow'rd  heav'n,  alack,  each  devious  track 

Winds  heavenward  soon  or  later. 
A  sorry  knave,  though,  who  would  save 

Himself  through  others'  sorrow; 
Who  rests  his  hope,  through  heav'n  to  grope, 

On  what  he  hopes  to  borrow! 

No,  no,  sair  heart,  bear  thou  the  smart, 
Fire  burns  the  han'  that  takes  it, 

Sin's  debt,  as  made,  if  fully  paid, 
Must  be  by  him  that  makes  it. 


MASONIC.  67 

Yet  all  the  years,  amid  the  spheres, 

Reveals  nae  vale  of  sorrow; 
Nae  grewsome  lot,  that  love  hath  not 

Made  brighter  on  the  morrow. 
#  *  #  *  *  * 

Then,  brither  man,  as  best  ye  can, 

Upon  the  earth — your  mither— 
Do  as  ye  would  that  ithers  should 

For  aye,  and  with  each  ither; 
Nor  fear  and  quake,  lest  heav'n  shall  make 

(As  per  the  Orthodoxies) 
Of  thee  a  roast,  to  please  the  host, 

In  heav'n's  proscenium  boxes. 

The  lightnings  flash,  the  thunders  crash, 

The  dauntless  sailor  warning; 
Black  tempest  rails,  yet  never  fails 

The  sunlight  in  the  morning. 
So  comes  a  night,  when  earth's  rush-light, 

Must  cease  its  feeble  burning; 
Yet,  courage,  friend!     That  night  shall  end 

With  sunlight  and  the  morning! 


IN   MEMORIAM. 


WRITTEN  FOR  THE  MEMORIAL  VOLUME  DEDICATED  TO  M.   \V.   GRAND  MASTER 
ISRAEL  M.    KTLLOCK,    WHO  DIED  OCT.    2O,    1879. 

"I    AM    GOING'  WITH    THE    LEAVES." 

NOT  fun'ral  wreath,  nor  lettered  stone, 
Nor  chiding  word,  nor  honied  speech, 
For  battles  lost  or  battles  won 

The  sleeping  hero  e'er  can  reach. 
E'en  not  the  brazen  trumpet's  breath, 
Disturbs  the  calm  repose  of  death. 


68  MASONIC. 

Come  hither,  boy!  yon  lonely  mound 

Hides  what  was  once  like  thee  a  child. 

In  loving  arms  encompassed  round, 
Joy  filled  his  cup  as  love  beguiled. 

Fond  hope  entranced  his  prescient  eye, 

Nor  deemed  he  then  how  time  could  fly. 

Years  sped  along,  dream  followed  dream,— 

Life's  outlined  charts,  rough  drawn, — until 

Adown  life's  bright  and  shining  stream, 
Love  took  the  helm  and  guided  well. 

Though  sensual  gardens  lined  the  shores, 

Yet  stopped  he  not  to  pluck  the  flow'rs. 

Fame's  golden  star  his  eye  entranced, — 
Fame,  born  of  high  and  noble  deeds! 

Against  the  common  foe's  advance, 
He  saw  among  our  human  needs, 

One  barrier  strong — least  understood, — 

E'en  this  our  tie  of  brotherhood. 

So  learned  he  well  that  mystic  trade, 

Which  buildeth  high  life's  outer  wall, 

O'er-lapping  blocks  for  "mutual  aid," 
In  love's  cement  imbedding  all: 

Beneath  the  shifting  sands  of  youth, 

He  laid  the  corner-stone  of  truth. 

Then  like  our  ancient  Master  grand, — 
Life's  temple  walls  in  beauteous  line, 

He  sketched  with  ever  faithful  hand, 
Embodying  still  the  King's  design. 

Yet  all  too  soon,  the  "  widow's  son  " 

Was  in  the  Temple  stricken  down. 

Ere  yet  his  keystone  bound  the  arch 
That  fain  within  its  loving  span, 

Had  gathered,  for  the  ages  march 

Toward  the  good,  this  world  of  men; — 


MASONIC.  69 

While  yet,  for  him,  Fame's  garland  weaves, 
He  falls,  alas!   like  "autumn  leaves." 

But  hold!   my  child,  I  talked  of  death;— 
There  is  no  death;   I  told  thee  wrong. 

Dust  claimeth  dust;  our  mortal  breath 
Goes  out  as  goes  an  evening  song: 

Yet  that  which  moves  the  heart  and  brain, 

Tombs  cannot  hide: — earth  cannot  chain: 

That  lives,  and  moves,  and  thinks,  and  speaks! 

The  life,  the  soul!  all  else  is  dust; 
Twixt  man  and  brute,  that  only  makes,— 

Talk  as  we  will, — distinction  just. 
Life,  soul  immortal,  thinking  man! 
Thine  cannot  be  oblivious  ban. 

vSo  live,  my  child,  that  when,  at  last 

Shall  strike  the  hour  that  bids  thee  come, 

With  garnered  sheaflets  from  the  past, 
To  make  the  river  journey  home, 

Thou  goest  not  like  as  one  afraid 

To  meet  some  terror  of  the  shade; 

But  like  our  friend,  with  spirit  glad, — 

While  hope  her  smiling  chaplet  weaves, 

In  robes  of  honor,  glory  clad, 

Go  gently — like  the  "  autumn  leaves,"- 

'Upon  the  breezes,  sweet  and  bland, 

Of  peace,  into  the  promised  land. 


yo  MASONIC. 

THE  BLESSEDNESS  OF  MASONRY. 

\VRITTKN  AS  PART  OF  AN  INTRODUCTION  TO  A  MASONIC    VOLUME. 

T   IFTING   from  the   sands  of    ages,    on    the    bleak  Rhode 

1A  Island  shore, 

Where   the    early   Norsemen  landed,   stands  a  castle  built  of 

yore: 

Every  block  out  of  proportion;  laid  by  rude  unskilful  hand; 
Yet  with  such  well  tempered  mortar,  as  the  ages  to  withstand! 

Years   to   centuries   have  rounded;  Nations  have   been  swept 

away, 
Mightier  castles,  e'en,  have  tottered  into  darkness  and  decay. 

Firmly,  yet,  these  walls  uplifteth   on  that  wild    New  England 

shore; 
Beating  back  the   angry  tempests,  laughing  at   the  breakers' 

roar! 

Though  for  what  was  their  uplifting,  never  may  diviner  guess, 
Yet,  to-day,  they  stand  exemplars  of  that  grace  of  faithfulness 

Which  doth   keep   its  foothold   firmly,   clinging  to   the  rocks 

below, 
Rocks  of  truth,  for  aye,  heroic  facing  to  the  common  foe. 

So  with  this  our  mystic  temple,  builded  on  life's  rugged  shore; 
Though  with  yet  imperfect  ashler,  standing,   yet,   forevermore, 

Firm,  undaunted,  with  its  turrets  reaching  to  the  skies  above, 
By  the  strength  of  that  good   mortar,   two  parts   friendship — 
three  of  love. 

Though  among  the  vanished  ages  somewhere  lies  its  corner 

stone, 
Still  it  builds,  and  builds  forever,  never  to  be  overthrown! 

Call  the   roll   of    ancient   workmen;  bid   them  to  the   witness 

stand; 
Men  of  lowly  rank  and  station,  men  the  proudest  in  the  land! 


MASONIC. 


7' 


See!     They  come  with  ashlers   chiseled  well  and  truly  to  the 

square; 
Wanting   though   in   some   proportions,   yet   of    strength   and 

beauty  rare. 

Listen    to    their    faithful    story,    how    they    trod    the    valleys 

through, 
By  the  light  that  shone  about  them,  from  the  old  toward  the 

new. 

Turn  these  pages  of  King  Hiram,  for  his  roll  of  workingmen; 
Read  between  their  lines  the  record  of  the  vanished  what  hath 
been: 

"  Vanished  ?  "   Nay,  but  that  was  wrongly  spoken,  since  in  each 

" to-day  " 
All  the  good  of  all  the  past  time  lives  forever  and  for  aye! 

******* 
Masonry  is  benefaction;  ever  at  its  door  the  sign 
Biddeth,  for  the  poor  and  needy  Welcome  to  its  corn  and  wine. 

For,  behold,  are  we  not  brothers,  children  of  the  Holy  One  ? 
Shall  of  wheat  be   ours  two  measures,   while   our  brother  he 
hath  none  ? 

Masonry  is  manly  living!     Who  hath  trod  its  tesseled  floor, 
Bowed  before  its  solemn  altar,  standeth  prouder  than  before; 

Walketh  broader  paths  of  duty;  mounteth  to  a  higher  plane; 
Lives  toward  a  better  future,  if  he  pledged  him  not  in  vain. 

Masonry  is  human  progress.     On  the  walls  of  yesterday 
To-morrow  finds  still  upward  courses,  chiseled  from  the  great 
to-day. 

Who  shall  say  this  loving  order,  young  in  heart,  if  not  in  years, 
Caring  for  the   poor  and  needy,  scattering  smiles  but  never 
tears; 

Making  glad  the  heart's  waste  places;  striving  all  the  world  to 

bless! 
Who  shall  say  its  loving  labor  hath  not  proved  a  blessedness  ? 


72  MASONIC. 

THE  DOUBLE  FUNERAL 


SUGGESTED    ON    WITNESSING    THE    LOWERING    OF    A    MOTHER    AND    SON 
INTO    ONE    GRAVE,     IN    BIRMINGHAM. 

Side  by  side,  on  that  vernal  clay, 

Together  we  laid  them — mother  and  son: 

She,  with  the  frost  of  the  winter  gray; 
He,  with  the  autumn  but  just  begun; 

She,  with  her  sheaflets  of  ninety  years, 

Patient  that  waited  her  Lord's  command; 
He,  from  the  harvest  of  ripened  ears, 

Fresh,  with  the  sickle  yet  firm  in  hand. 

As  a  strong  defence  and  up-holder,  he, 

To  the  poor,  like  the  Knights  of  old, 
Gave  as  he  could  of  his  gold,  and  free; 

Or  of  love  that  was  better  than  gold. 

Slowly  we  marched,  in  solemn  train, 

To  the  tap  of  the  muffled  drum, 
While  the  silent  forms  of  the  faithful  twain, 

Were  borne  to  their  final  home. 

The  sword  in  the  Knightly  hand,  and  stout, 

Was  crossed  o'er  that  lowly  grave; 
While  the  great  Red  Cross,  through  the  crape  spoke  out 

Of  hope,  and  of  One  to  save. 

Brother  of  mine,  on  that  solemn  day — 

In  last  embrace  to  a  long  repose — 
Did  we  "  lay  them  together  ?"  I  tell  you  nay— 

Simply  we  buried  their  cast-off  clothes. 

Ee'n  as  I  turned  from  that  scene  of  gloom, 

The  buds  that  burst  to  the  vernal  breath, 
Proclaimed — in  spite  of  that  closing  tomb — 

"  There  is  no  death,  that  there  is  no  death." 


MASONIC.  73 

THE    CLOSING   OF   THE    EODGE. 


I. 

OST   Worshipful,  a  loud  alarm  is  resounding  at   the  gate, 
As  if  some  one  seeking  entrance  at  our  portals  did  .await 

Attend  the  alarm,  Junior  Deacon!   I   would  know  who  cometh 

there! 
See  that  none  shall  enter  hither,  coming  not  upon  the  square. 

Worshipful,  I  find  a  stranger  with  a  message  from  the  King, 
Which   he  bids   me.  say,   in   person,   to  the  Master  he  would 
bring. 

Junior    Deacon,   if    he's   worthy,   and   hath   got  the    Master's 

word, 
You'll   admit   him  to  our  presence,  that  his  message  may  be 

heard. 

Stranger,  what  may  be  thy  pleasure  ? — a  messenger  we  hear, 
Thou   hast   come  from   one  above  us,  whom,  as  Masons,  we 
revere. 

Most  Worshipful,  a  greeting  from  his  Majesty,  the  King, 
Unto  thee,  His  worthy  servant.  He  commissions  me  to  bring:— 

And,  from  labor  to  refreshment,  He  would  call  thee  to  the 

East, 
As  the  one  that  He  would  honor  at  the  coming  harvest  feast. 

Stranger,  we   have   heard   your  message;  go   report  unto  the 

King, 
That  His  servant  standeth  ready  for  the  temple  gate  to  swing. 

II. 

Brothers,  we  will  close  our  labors.     Warden,  how  doth  go  the 

hour  ? 
(High  twelve,  Most  Worshipful.)   Brother  Junior,  to  the  door! 


74  MASONIC. 

Bid  the  Tyler  to  be  wary,  that  no  cowan  shall  intrude, 
To  disturb  the  closing  service  of  this  ancient  brotherhood. 

Brother  Wardens,  can  you  tell  us  how,  as  Masons,  we  should 
meet  ? 

Aye,  "upon  a  level"  truly.  How  should  stand  our  parting- 
feet? 

"Upon  the  square."     Then  oh,  my  brothers,  by  the  plummet 

of  the  right, 
Standing    upright,    facing    eastward,    to   the   fountain   of    the 

light, 

Let  us  bear  each  other's  burdens — taking  each  a  noble  share,— 
So  to  meet  upon  a  level,  and  to  part  upon  the  square. 

III. 

Here  we  part  upon  our  journey: — /to  heed  the  gavel  call 
Of  the  Master  that  hath  purpose  even  in  a  sparrow's  fall; 

You  to  hew  and  lay  the  ashler  till  the  purple  morning  grand 
Shall  behold  our  living  Temple  as  the  proudest  in  the  land. 

Like  the  wind,  our  breath  is  fleeting,  here  a  moment,  and   'tis 

gone; 
There's  a  tear  that  dries  in  falling   on  the  mound  upon  the 

stone. 

Yet  our  deeds  must  live  forever;  then,  my  -brothers,  may  you 

bear 
So  the  test  of  plumb  and  level,  as  to  die  upon  the  square. 

There  is  something  deep  within  me  that  is  calling  unto  you, 
My  beloved,  that  would  bid  you,  as  the  journey  you  pursue, 

To  forget  not  that  the  glory,  which  the  forest  now  receives, 
Very  soon  will  have  departed,  with  the  falling  of  the  leaves. 

So,  within,  is  ever  calling,  calling  faithfully  to  you, 

As  good  Masons,  and  as  brothers,  to  endeavor  to  pursue. 


MASONIC.  75 

So  the  pathway  of  your  labor,  that  the  glory  of  your  sheaves, 
Shall   not  fade,   as   fades   the    forest,   with  the  falling  of  the 
leaves. 

Thus   I   close   this  lodge    of    Masons;    with   my  labors  1   am 

through; 
I  must  leave  you  all,  my  brothers,  with  a  Mason's  fond  adieu! 

Yet  I  would  not  leave  you  grieving,  as  the  unbeliever  grieves, 
Since  from  labor  to  refreshment,  "  I  am  going  with  the  leaves." 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE   MEN. 

«P  from  the  far  Atlantic  shore, 
Old  Sumpter's  voice  was  heard, 
And  swift  the  winged  lightnings  bore 

That  ever-thrilling  word- 
Through  village  homes  and  rural  farms 
Your  country  calls,  to  arms!  to  arms! 

Ah,  well  I  mind  me  how  they  came, 
From  shop  and  furrowed  field, 

With  kindled  eye  and  hearts  aflame, 
The  patriot  sword  to  wield; 

The  pride  of  all  our  northern  land — 

What  foeman  could  their  shock  withstand  ? 

They  came  with  many  a  tearful  thought 

Of  dear  ones  left  behind, 
Of  grand  old  hills,  whence  mem'ry  brought 

Her  cherished  scenes  to  mind; 
Yet  never  backward  turned  their  face, 
Save  but  to  take  love's  last  embrace. 

As,  on  that  tearful  Sabbath  morn, 
With  firm  and  steady  tread, 

That  band  of  heroes,  newly  born, 
Their  southward  marches  led, 

I  questioned  if,  indeed,  they  knew, 

What  it  might  cost  to  wear  the  blue. 


PATRIOTIC.  77 

And  so  I  asked,  "  To  deadly  strife, 

Why  goest  thou,  good  sir?" 
And,  quickly,  Kirkham,  with  his  fife, 

And  Chaffee  with  his  snare, 
Struck  up  old  Yankee  Doodle,  grand — 
That  battle  guage  of  Fatherland. 

"  Death  lulls  upon  thy  southern  track," 

I  whispered  manhood's  prime, 
And,  buckling  on  the  martyr  pack, 

The  answer  came  sublime, 
"  Since  slav'ry  gave  to  treason  birth, 
Our  blood  shall  wash  it  from  the  earth." 

"And  thou  brave  Russell, — soul  so  rare! — 

Why  go  ye  forth  to  die  ?  " 
His  flashing  sabre  cuts  the  air, 

And,  pointing  to  the  sky, 
With  holy  faith  and  courage  bright, 
"  Forward!  "  he  cries,  for  God  and  Right. 

And  these  returning  brave,  that  come 

To-day  from  ship  and  farm, 
Thrice  welcome  to  each  loyal  home, 

Protected  by  thy  arm; — 
Friends  of  her  country  in  her  need, 
She  treasures  up  each  valiant  deed. 

Henceforth  your  camp  fires  flame  afar 

With  hope's  benignant  beams! 
Henceforth,  for  aye,  grim  visaged  war 

Is  banished  from  thy  dreams; 
And  hence  may  all  life's  journeys  be 
Triumphant  marches  to  the  sea! 

Time  speeds  us  on;  each  annual  day 

Fresh  furrows  line  the  brow; 
The  head  puts  on  the  rebel  gray, 

But  th'  heart  still  wears  the  blue; 


7  8  PATRIOTIC. 

And  woe  the  cailiff  that  shall  try 
To  pluck  your  banner  from  the  sky! 

That  banner  which,  to  every  mast, 
Your  strong  arms  helped  to  nail; 

Which,  passing  through  war's  furnace  blast, 
Rides  prouder  now  the  gale, 

In  every  land,  on  every  sea, 

The  glorious  guerdon  of  the  free! 

Happy  the  land  which  thus  can  claim 

Such  loyal  sons  her  own! 
Within  whose  breast,  that  altar  flame 

Of  Spartan  love  hath  grown; 
Which,  e'en  with  life,'  defends  the  state, 
Nor  deems  such  sacrifice  too  great. 

Cursed  the  hand,  to  which  again 

Shall  leap  the  treacherous  sword! 

Palsied  the  tongue,  from  which  amain 
Shall  spring  sedition's  word! 

Land  of  the  brave!   from  every  ill, 

God  help  and  keep  and  guide  thee  still! 


IN  THE  ORANGE  CHURCHYARD. 


A    SOI.  1)1  KR  S    BURIAL. 

<TT  CHEERFUL  winter's    sun  that  day    shone  all  the  hills 

jL  around, 

And  did  its  best  to  brighten  e'en  the  dim  old  burying  ground, 

Where  brooding  silence  reigned  supreme,  save  slowly  as  out- 
rang 

The  belfry  bell,  or  'mong  the  pines  the  hollow  March  winds 
sang. 

Around  me  ranged  the  village  dead,  with  many  a  line  that  told 
Of  worthy  life,  of  peaceful  end — the  hopes  of  young  and  old. 


PATRIOTIC.  79 

Beside  a  freshly  opened  grave  for  some  new-comer  made, 
A  sexton  stood,  with  bended  head,  and  leaning  on  his  spade, 

Of  whom  I  questioned  of  the  dead,  and  who  this  answer  gave, 
"  A  soldier  hath  been  mustered  out — the  bravest  of  the  brave." 

Back   ran   my  thoughts  to  those   great   days  when,  sounding 

near  and  far, 
Went  forth  the  stirring  cry  for  men  to  rally  for  the  war  ! 

When  kinsman  against  kinsman  stood  embattled  on  the  plain, 
And  armies  wheeled,  where  lately  trod,  but  harvesters  of  grain! 

But  little  had  we  known  of  war.      Life  ?     'Twas  a  sacred  thing; 
Death  ?   Of  a   right,   what   human   hand    such    destiny    could 
swing  ? 

The  clouds  went  gath'ring  deep  and  dark.     An  hundred  dead 

or  so 
Were  noted — and  forgotten  in  the  next  great  crowning  woe. 

Men  left  their  homes,  shut  up  their  shops,  raked  down  their 

furnace  grates, 
And  fought  until  secession  bowed,  submissive,  at  their  gates. 

II. 

Methinks,  too  oft,  in  careless  way,  we  speak  or  think  of  him, 
That  in  defence  of  commonweal,  thus  periled  life  and  limb  ! 

Yet,  how  should  one  that  never  drew  the  sabre  from  its  sheath, 
Or  heard  the  whirling  minnie's  "  ping,"  or  took  the  cannon's 
breath, 

Know  what  it  was  to  sleep  or  wake  by  noxious  breezes  fanned  ? 
To  march  with  torn   and  bleeding  feet  with  death  on  every 
hand  ? 

To  rot  in  prisons,  or,  perhaps,  by  battle  fortunes  spared, 
To  end  the  march  upon  a  crutch  infirm  and  silver  haired  ? 

All  this  came  freshly  to  the  mind,  as  with  slow  martial  tread, 
Up  through  the  aisles  the  veterans  came,  and  with  their  latest 
dead — 


8o  PATRIOTIC. 

A  gallant  lad— when  days  were  dark,  that  heard  the  rallying 

cry 
On  Oxford  hills,  and  heart  aflame,  went  forth  to  do  or  die. 

Where  might  a  veteran  cheek  grow  pale,  firm  at  the  front  he 

stood, 
With  mother's  kiss  yet  fresh  and  warm,  baptized  with  fire  and 

blood. 

Day  after   day  where   duty  led,  with  brave   though  'prentice 

hand, 
He  fought  the  fight  and  kept  the  faith  for  God  and  fatherland. 

III. 

Years  roll  away.     'Neath  brighter  skies  hope  spreads  alluring 

wing; 
Fresh  joys,  each  brighter  than  the  last,  the  changeful  seasons 

bring. 

One  fateful  day,  a  poisoned  shaft  sped  from  the  archer's  bow, 
And  he  that  braved  the  battle  death  was  laid  in  silence  low. 

To  fold  his  tent  no  moment  his,  or  for  a  last  farewell; 
Face  to  the  front,  in  marching  line,  upon  the  track  he  fell. 

Nor  wife,  nor  child,  could  him  recall,  or  stay  his  upward  flight; 
So  in  the  dust,  all  that  was  dust  was  buried  from  their  sight. 

The  veterans  gathered  round  his  grave,  the  last  sad  rites  were 

said, 
And  from  their  ranks  one  more  had  joined  the  "  bivouac  of 

the  dead." 

The  sexton  heaped  the  loving  earth  with  many  a  sorrowing 

tear, 
And  wrote — what   prouder  could  he  write — "  A  soldier   lieth 

here." 


PATRIOTIC.  8 1 

NORTH   AND  SOUTH   OF   DIXIE. 


READ    ON    A    MEMORIAL    DAY    OCCASION. 
I. 

COME  to  our  re-union,  said  your  committee's  letter; 
Had   it   only  added   "  Comrade,"    'twould  have  sounded 

much  the  better, 
For  I  always  "chum"  the  soldier;  though  to  martial  deeds  a 

stranger, 
I  like  to  share  his  glory,  where  there  isn't  any  danger. 

I  know  it  is  the  custom,  when  old  comrades  come  together, 
To  talk  of  haps  and  mishaps,  as  well  as  of  the  weather; 
By  the  help,  sometimes,  it  may  be,  of  a  rich  imagination, 
To  recount  of  deeds  of  valor  in  some  daring  situation. 

But  the  truth  is,  that  our  stories  are  just  a  little  u  mix  "  y, 
Of.  the  stirring  scenes  of  camp-life   on   this  northern  side  of 

Dixie. 

For,  if  e'er  a  foolish  chicken  paid  the  rental  of  its  roosting, 
It  was  never  thought  a  subject  for  very  much  of  boasting. 

For,  you  see,  among  our  people  there  was  prevalent  a  feeling, 
That  to  "  forage  "  on  a  hencoop  was  equivalent  to  stealing. 
On  the  other  side  of  Dixie, 'a  porker  or  a  chicken 
Was  "contraband  of  war"  just  the  moment  it  was  taken. 

The  same  was  true  of  fences;  for  the  chicken,  if  you  took  it, 
By  necessity  demanded  that  you  have  a  fire  to  cook  it; 
Besides,  by  your  commission,  in  very  many  senses, 
Each  soldier  was  a  chairman  of  commission  on  de-fences. 

Yet  despite  such  easy  ruling,  it  was  found  in  many  cases, 
That   the   question    was    prolific    of    some    rapid    change    of 
bases — 

And  some  very  tight-ish  places! — 

Unless,  offended  justice,  in  whose  presence  you  were  taken, 
Was  blinded  for  the  moment  by  a  slice  or  two  of  bacon. 


82  PATRIOTIC. 

'Course,  we  rather  liked  the  notion  of  a  big  N   to  the  Nation;: 
But    we    couldn't    all    go    southward,   for  there   wasn't  trans- 
portation; 

Besides,. to  bite  the  cartridge,  we  were  lacking  the  incisors, 
Or  were  otherwise  disabled — yet  were  excellent  advisers. 

So  we   fell   back   on    the  mountains,  while  your  battles  were 

progressing, 
Backing  up  both  sides  of  Dixie  with  our  prayers  and  with  our 

blessing; 
That  you  should  not  e'er  be  lacking   certain  comforts  of  the 

body, 
We  kept  our  mills  a-running  to  furnish  you  with  shoddy. 

Even,    lest    from    over-eating,    should    your    usefulness    be 

dwindled, 

In  the  matter  of  your  rations,  it  is  even  said  we  swindled  (!) 
In  that  we  wormed  the  crackers  and  aromatized  the  bull! 
But  we  knew  you  couldn't  battle  with  your  bellies  over  full. 

When  Uncle  Abe  grew  angry  and  talked  of  our  conscription, 
A  substitute  we  purchased  of  some  nondescript  description, 
Or  with  northward  turning  faces,  to  Victoria's  dominions, 
We  went  off  upon  our  "muscle  "  in  defence  of  our  opinions. 

Yet  we  never  meant  desertion;  whatsoever  did  betide  you, 
With  an  eye  upon  your  movements,  we  might  soon  have  stood 

beside  you, 
As  some   other  fellows  promised,   through   their   crockadilian 

tears, 
In  that  famous  "Testimonials  to  our  Derby  Volunteers." 

But,    in    fact,    when    all    was    ready    for     our    movement,    as 

intended, 
Flashing  northward  came  the   echo   that  the  bloody   war  was 

ended ! 

So  we  hastened  back  to  offer  you  our  best  congratulations, 
And  restore  the  ancient  status  of  our  family  relations. 


PATRIOTIC.  83 

II. 

You   have  done  the  state  some  service;  that  I  think  will  be 

conceded, 
Though   you   struck  a   little   harder   than,   perhaps,    occasion 

needed: 

For  to  us,  in  the  safe  distance,  you  did  seem  to  be  forgetting 
To  be   careful,   down   in   Dixie,   of    the   head   that  you  were 

hitting. 

For  you  never  fired  your  bullets  by  the  "doctrine  of 
selection!  " 

Whosoever  stood  before  them,  was  a  subject  for  dissection. 

But  the  by-gones  should  be  by-gones;  things  like  these  are  too 
unpleasant, 

To  be  springing  from  the  darkness  of  the  past  into  the 
present. 

There  is  much  to  be  forgiven;  we  are  willing  to  forgive  it — 

There  is  something  for  out-living,  and  we  hope  thatjw/7/  out- 
live it! 

There  is  nothing  small  about  us;   what  we  ask  is  but  a  trifle; 
Only  this,  that  we  may  govern  by  the  shot  gun  or  the  rifle; 
To  stand  behind  the  poll  box  with  a  hand  upon  the  trigger, 
To  preserve  the  proper  status  of  the — blank — infernal  nigger. 

Pur-inciples!  pur-inciples!  can  never  go  astray! 

"  That  which  Lee  and  Jackson  fought  for,  we  are  fighting  for 

to-day," 

As  we  storm  old  Castle  William,  and  a  gallant  Union  name 
"  Surrenders  at  discretion  " — or  without  it — all  the  same. 

We  didn't  like  to  take  him  as  our  "  Moses,"  it  is  true, 

But  in  our  forlorn  condition  what  the  d 1  could  we  do  ? 

There  was  Tilden;  but  with  Kelly  and  those  terrible  "dis- 
patches," 

He  would  "cypher"  up  at  'lection  mor'n  an  hundred  thousand 
scratches. 


84  PATRIOTIC. 

There  was  Hendricks — there  was   English;  but  the  "English 

of  it  "  was, 

That  we'd  got  to  have  a  leader  that  was  loyal  to  the  cause- 
That    the    loyal    people    went    for,    or    our    little    game    was 

"  played;  " 
So    we    marched    on    Castle   William,  and  our    candidate    we 

made: 

A  chap  that  we'd  been  swearing  was  a  robber  and  a  thief! 
A  "  satrap,"  and  a  "  minion  " — of  murderers  the  chief! 
It  seems  a  little  curious  to  be  training  under  him, 
But  necessity's  a  tyrant,  with  a  visage  very  grim. 

Yet,  suppose,  my  fellow  mourners,  suppos'n  he's  elected, 

(A  thing  in  knowing  circles  that  isn't  much  expected), 

Don't:  you  think  that  'round  the  White  House  loyal  colors  will 

be  few  ? 
And  that  Hancock,  to  be  easy,  will  be  putting  off  the  blue  ? 

(You  bet!)  and  he  will  lead  us  into  fat  and  easy  places, 
(Or  we'll  be  leading  him  when  we  get  him  in  the  traces;) 
And  we'll  take   our  seats  at  table,  where  without  a  moment's 

pause 
The  fattest  bovine  infant  we  will  make  a  thing  that  was. 

"  Can  he   run   our  southern  party — this   blue    bellied    Union 

Yankee  ?" 
From  the  Toombs  comes  back  the  answer  (jubilante)    "  No,   I 

thankee! " 
With    our    ports    and  custom  houses,   fifty   thousand    safe    in 

hand, 
We   ourselves  will   do   the   "running"    to  the  tune   of   Dixie 

land! 

But  hold  !   I'm  leaking  secrets — party  secrets,  too,  at  that; 
E'en   like   Toombs  and  brother   Hampton,   I've  been  kicking 
o'er  the  fat: 


PATRIOTIC.  85 

"  Didn't  say  it!   didn't  say  it!  "   it  is  all  a  Tribune  lie! 
Breathe  it  not  though,  down  in   Dixie,  that  our  prophets  we 
deny. 

"Aint  we  goin'  to  do  the  fair  thing?  " — Mister  Toombs,  that's 

understood! 
Stop  hurrahing,   ask   no  questions,   we  ain't  half  way  through 

the  wood! 
If  you   can't   use   more   discretion    better    shut    your    hungry 

mouth, 
Or  a  solid  North  we'll  bet  on  as  "agin  "  a  solid  South. 

III. 

Soldiers,    friends,    if    I    have   drifted    into    something  out  of 

tense, 

If   I've  been  a  bit  sarcastic  on  the  fellows  "in  the  fence," 
It  is  not  that  I  would  question  the  integrity  of  men 
That  may  chance  with  me  to  differ,  north  of  Dixie,  now  and 

then. 

It  is  not  that  e'en  the  rebel  hath  done  more  or. worse  than   I 
Might  have  done  in  his  position,  down  beneath  a  rebel  sky; 
Right  or  Wrong   are   names   that   color,  by  the  accident    of 

birth—- 
By the   light   that  shines  upon   us — by    the    rounding   of  the 

earth. 

But  the  law  of  self-protection  gives  the  right  to  every  man — 
Aye,  the  duty,  as  he  sees  it — to  strike  the  best  he  can. 
Since  upon  the  South  plantations  opened  wide  the  negro  pen, 
With  the  "whirling  of  the  mill  stone,"  things  have  changed,  but 
not  the  men. 

Afric  still  upon  the  willows  hangs  her  harp,  without   a  string; 
Still   the  hands  of  haughty  masters,  would  the  bloody  lashes 

swing; 
Is   it   safe  ?     Can   we   afford  it  ?     These  are  questions  of    the 

hour; 
Northern  men,  can  you  afford  it  for  the  sake  of  party  power  ? 


86  PATRIOTIC. 

"  Hold   the   fort"   the    slogan   soundeth!    lo,   the   battle  is  at 

hand; 
Northern  men,  and   you   the  victors!   shall  the  ballot  rule  the 

land  ? 

Honest  voting,  honest  counting!   for  the  honor  of  the  free, 
These  must  triumph  or  go  under;  which,    I   pray  you,  shall  it 

be? 

You  that  wore  the  Union  armor  in  the  day  of  noble  souls, 
With    your   honors   thick    upon    you,   can   \ve  trust  you  at  the 

polls' 

Aye,  indeed,  there's  little  danger  that  the  blue  above  the  gray, 
With  the  bait  "Superb"  can   trap  you,  into  treason's   narrow 

way. 

Only  get  the  matter  clearly,  trace  its  workings  to  the  end, 
And  for  which  you  paid  so  dearly  that  you   surely  will  defend. 

God  preserve  us  through  this  danger,  give  us  men  that  will  be 

heard, 
For  the  Right  in  Hall  or  Manger — through  the  flesh  or  by  the 

Word; 

Men  too  proud  to  lie  for  party;   men  too  just  to  e'er  iJefainc ; 
Men  to  face  the  Wrong,  whatever  its  connection   or   its  name. 
And  although  we  may  not  see  it,  yet  may  as  the  years  descend, 
Th'  stones  keep  on  their  grinding  truth  and  justice  to  the  end. 

God  protect  us  through  all   danger,   make  our   Nation   yet  as 

one; — 

One  in  purpose — one  in  action,  till  the  peace  the  bullet  won, 
Over  all  our  broad  dominions,  shall  its  snowy  wings  expand— 
East  and  \Vest  and   North  and   Southward,  even   to  the   Dixie 

land. 

God  preserve  us  and  protect  us!   with  the  ballot  give  us  still 
Grace  to  take,  and  power  to  hold  it,  as  against  all    threatened 

ill. 

Who  is  wrong  let  him  be  righted,  who  is  right  let  him  he  true, 
And  firm,  to  back  the  glory  of  the  dear  old  boys  in  blue. 


PATRIOTIC.  87 

Whom,  may   God    sustain   and   keep   them    in   the    land    they 

fought  to  save, 
Till — far  hence — the  grateful  \vreathlet  falls  upon  an  honored 

grave; 

Till  the  evening  tattoo  endeth  with  the  morning  reveille, 
And  the  (kites  of  (loci  resoundeth  to  the  anthems  of  the  free! 


FOR  MEMORIAL  DAY. 


\\    \i,i.K<,oky. 


1  STOOD  one  day  by  a  sounding  shore, 
Where  the  dashing  waves  came  in  from  sea. 
When  a  dark-winged  bird  came  sailing  o'er, 
And  this  was  the  song  that  he  sang  to  me: 
"  Ever,  forever,  there  is  nothing  more  ! 
Death  is  a  sea  with  no  father  shore." 

"  But  tell  me,  thou  bird  of  the  raven  wing, 
Tell  me,"  I  said,  "  is  there  not  a  goal 

In  the  realms  beyond,  from  whence  to  bring 
Some  word  of  hope  for  the  yearning  soul  ?" 

But  he  answered  me  back,  "  There  is  nothing  more; 

Death  is  a  sea  with  no  farther  shore." 

"  It  is  false,  thou  bird  " — it  was  thus,  I  said— 
"  Else  who  are  these  that  have  traveled  back, 

Though  in  shadowy  form — that  were  left  for  dead 
On  the  trampled  field,  in  their  gory  track  ? 

The  dead,  yet  living,  who  cannot  die, 

Or  my  faith  hath  told  me  a  pitiful  lie." 

"  It  may  be  true,  but  I  cannot  tell," 
For  so  did  the  bird  make  answering; 

,"  There  may  be  realms  where  the  risen  dwell, 
Unreached,  as  yet,  by  my  sweeping  wing; 

I  will  search  again  in  the  realms  around, 

And  will  come  and  tell  thee  if  aught  be  found." 


88  PATRIOTIC. 

The  bird  came  back,  but  his  raven  wings 

Had  changed  to  snow,  while  his  face  outshone 

As  he  told  a  tale  of  the  beautiful  things 

That  were  over  beyond  where  the  sun  goes  down — 

Of  the  hosts  of  the  loving  and  living  there, 

That  shone  as  the  sun  in  the  morning  air. 

And  thus  to  the  bird  did  I  give  command: 

"Tell  me  of  all  those  shining  ones 
Who  dwell  in  the  midst  of  that  beautiful  land, 

Who,  of  the  King,  are  the  favorite  sons — 
WTorthy  the  prize  that  have  counted  been  ?" 
And  he  answered,  "  The  men  that  have  died  for  men; 

That  have  bared  the  breast  to  the  foeman's  steel, 
That  have  borne  the  march  and  the  hunger  pang, 

Till  was  trodden  oppression  beneath  the  heel, 
And  the  bells  of  freedom  their  paeans  rang; 

Till  the  chain  was  broken  and  all  were  free, 

'Neath  the  banner  of  stars,  from  sea  to  sea." 

"  But  tell  me,"  I  said,  "  do  they  e'er  return 

From  their  homes  of  peace  on  those  distant  shores, 

With  message  of  hope  for  those  that  mourn  ? 

Do  they  gather  about  us — these  friends  of  ours  ?" 

And  my  heart  beat  quick  lest  he  tell  me  nay, 

And  the  joy  of  my  years  should  be  swept  away. 

Hut  the  bird  looked  up  with  so  glad  a  mien 

That  my  soul  was  thrilled  ere  he  spoke  a  word; 

And  he  said  that  "•  Forever  around  the  seen 
Was  the  great  unseen,  and  the  great  unheard; 

Yet  seen  and  heard,  by  whose  eye  and  ear 

Should  strive,  in  the  darkness,  to  see  and  hear." 

I  looked,  and  a  host  of  the  battle  slain 

Came  through  the  smoke  that  had  hid  from  view, 

And  a  song  that  I  heard  was  a  glad  refrain 
That  told  of  the  men  that  had  worn  the  blue; 


PATRIOTIC.  89 

That,  for  the  right,  had  the  battle  braved; 
The  dead,  yet  living  !     The  saviors  saved  ! 

And  thus  it  was  said,  "  Though  the  bronze  decays 
As  a  flower  succumbs  to  the  autumn  rime, 

Yet  heroes  live  through  the  whirling  days 
That  come  and  go,  to  the  end  of  time; 

In  deeds  accomplished  to  human  good, 

For  God,  for  truth,  and  for  brotherhood." 


THE  DAY  AND  ITS  LESSONS. 


'WRITTEN    BY    RKcjTEST    OK    KKI.I.OGG    ]'(  >ST,     No.     26,    <;.    A.     R.,    AND    READ 

IN    CONNK.CTION    WITH    TIIK    CEREMONIES    OK    DECORATION.    DAY,    AT 

BIRMINGHAM,    CONN.,    MAY    30,     l8yi. 

0NCE  more  our  feet  the  winding  pathways  tread, 
Through  this  pale  city  of  the  silent  dead: 
Whose  marble  doors  are  closed  alike  on  all, 
Who  come  from  cottage,  or  from  palace  hall; 
Whose  roofs,  grown  green  beneath  the  vernal  showers, 
We  thatch,  to-day,  with  living,  loving,  flowers; 
Whose  shafts  memorial,  lifting  up  on  high 
Their  chiseled  fingers  to  the  bending  sky, 
With  tongueless  eloquence  each  deed  proclaims, 
Of  these,  our  heroes,  and  embalm  their  names. 

Once  more  we  come,  the  oft-told  tale  to  tell, 

How  these  men  died,  how  bravely  and  how  well; 

How  Russell  heard,  when  Sumpter's  thunder  woke 

The  northern  echoes,  and  at  Roanoke, 

How  he  hauled  down  what  treason's  hand  up-ran, 

And  sealed  with  blood  his  legacy  to  man. 

How  Kellogg,  brave,  and  Hotchkiss,  good  and  true, 

And  Lee  and  Barker,  donned  the  nation's  blue, 

And  with  a  host  of  other  names  as  fair, 

Sent  howling  back  Secession  to  its  lair. 


90  PATRIOTIC. 

Aye,  tell  the  tale  again,  and  yet  again, 

'Twill  ne'er  grow  old  while  memories  remain, 

Of  those  dark  years,  when  hideous  Slavery's  thong 

Bound  boasted  freemen  to  the  car  of  wrong; 

While  we,  poor  souls,  that  joined  the  hounding  pack, 

And,  quoting  Paul,  did  send  the  bondsman  back 

To  unpaid  labor,  neath  the  oppressor's  rod, 

In  Israel  learned  that  there  was  yet  a  God, 

Whose  'venging  hand  the  stripes  could  full  repay, 

From  freedom's  door  who  turned  his  child  away. 

O  Watchman,  standing  in  the  dawnlight  gray, 
If  night  be  passed,  tell  us  what  of  the  day  ? 
Have  men  learned  wisdom  from  the  fulfilled  word, 
"  Who  takes  the  sword,  shall  perish  by  the  sword  ?" 
Out  from  the  lurid  flame  and  crash  of  war, 
Pluck  we  the  flow'r  of  peace  ?  and,  shall  our  star 
Of  Empire  shine  undimmed  forevermore, 
By  fratricidal  strife  ?     From  shore  to  shore, 
Shall  narrow  caste  and  prejudice  of  race 
To  human  love  and  brotherhood  give  place  ? 

Behold,  a  vision  !     On  this,  fair  freedom's  soil, 
Goes  the  scarred  bondmen  to  his  unpaid  toil; 
Friendless  and  homeless,  hopeless  and  forlorn, 
His  anguished  cry  a  nation  laughs  to  scorn; 
While  burlesqued  justice,  in  her  ermine  decked, 
His  right  denies  to  brother  man's  respect; 
His  wife,  his  child,  himself  but  merchandise, 
Nothing  his  own  beneath  the  azure  skies. 

The  years  roll  on.     An  old  man  hears  the  cry 
Of  struggling  weakness,  and  his  pikemen  fly- 
To  break  the  oppressor's  rod.      E'en  their  small  tread, 
Pales  guilty  southland  with  foreboding  dread. 
A  wounded  pris'ner  in  a  dungeon  lies, 
A  gibbet  rises  and  a  martyr  dies. 
God's  wheels  roll  on.     Where  John  Brown's  pikemen  trod. 


PATRIOTIC.  91 

A  million  foemen  drench  the  gory  sod, 
And  torch  and  flame  amid  the  clash  and  din, 
Burn  out  the  blackness  of  a  nation'  sin. 

Again  the  scene  is  changed.     The  war  cloud  lifts, 
And  trem'bling  down  between  the  opening  rifts, 
Come  gladsome  rays  of  industry  and  peace; 
The  scarred  earth  yields,  once  more,  her  fair  increase 
To  sturdy  arms,  that  for  the  peaceful  spade, 
Throw  down  the  musket  and  the  gleaming  blade. 
The  dusky  toiler,  at  the  free  man's  door, 
Casts  off  the  shackles  which  the  vassal  wore; 
And  standing  forth  beneath  the  skies  erect, 
Asserts  his  manhood,  and  compels  respect. 

And  e'en  though  scourged  to  destitution's  door, 

The  master's  self  is  richer  than  before; 

For  though  he  dine  upon  a  scantier  bone, 

1 1  is  labor  earned  it,  and  it  is  his  own. 

From  aimless  ease  his  tardy  footsteps  go, 

To  learn  at  length  man's  business  is  to  grow, 

As  grows  the  germ  which  from  the  acorn  springs, 

And  reaches  on  tow'rd  higher,  better  things. 


THE    NEW    DIXIE. 


i. 

TITHE  sword  of  our  fathers  had  gone  to  rust, 
L          Or  had  turned  to  the  reaper's  bkide; 
The  plume  of  the  soldier  was  out  of  date, 

As  the  mark  of  an  ancient  trade; 
The  sound  of  the  loom  and  the  hammers'  blow 

In  the  workshop,  and  in  the  mill, 
With  the  song  of  the  ploughman,  was  heard  afar 

In  the  valley,  and  on  the  hill; 


92  PATRIOTIC. 

The  skies  above  us  were  calm  and  clear; 

The  prosp'ring  sun  ran  high; 
When  out  of  the  south  in  a  moment's  time 

A  tempest  o'erspread  the  sky; 
The  click  of  the  hasty  lock  was  heard 

On  the  door  of  the  shop  and  mill, 
And  the  ploughman  took  lessons  in  battle  craft 

By  th'  light  of  the  midnight  drill. 

The  polishe'd  blade  of  the  plough  was  left 

To  rust  in  the  earth  beneath, 
And  the  sickle  again  was  a  reaping  hook 

In  the  hand  of  the  reaper — death. 
The  tempest  came  with  its  whirling  breath, 

And  its  armies  of  mighty  tread, 
To  leave,  at  last,  in  its  wasted  track, 

An  hundred  thousand  dead. 
******  :> 

A  sword,  a  sash,  and  a  soldier's  coat, 

Is  hung  on  the  cottage  wall, — 
With  a  manly  face  in  a  golden  frame, 

And  a  banner  enwreathing  all; 
The  banner  is  tattered  and  battle  worn, 

But  its  union  hath  all  the  stars; 
And  the  captain's  coat  hath  a  bullet  mark 

]ust  under  the  shoulder  bars. 

I  read  in  the  record,  "  He  bore  the  flag 

In  the  teeth  of  a  fiery  hell; 
And  his  sword  was  grasped  in  his  cold  right  hand, 

In  the  morning,  where  he  fell." 
Swift,  over  the  wires,  a  reinless  steed 

A  message  of  sorrow  bore, 
That  tied  with  a  never  dissolving  knot, 

The  crape  on  the  cottage  door. 
******  ••] 

Forgiveness  ?     Yes,  tis  a  kindly  grace; 

If  God  can  forgive  the  crew, 


PATRIOTIC.  93 

That  drove  the  hearse  to  the  Nation's  door, 

We  ought  to  forgive  them,  too; 
But  what  if,  while  making  the  welcome  feast, 

At  our  gate  the  prodigal  pause, 
To  flaunt  in  our  faces  the  tattered  rag 

Of  his  "  lost  "  disunion  "  cause  ?  " 

And  where  shall  concession  draw  the  line, 

And  justice  assert  her  right  ? 
And  shall  we  preserve  at  any  cost, 

The  victories  of  the  fight  ? 
I  said  that  my  brother  had  wiser  grown 

Since  the  morning  that  Sumpter  burned; 
And  I  hastened  to  level  each  grassy  mound 

Where  memories  lay  inurned. 

I  said  it  shall  be  as  it  had  not  been! — 

I  will  wipe  every  tear  away, 
And  I'll  sit  me  down  in  the  joyful  hope 

Of  a  brighter  and  better  day. 

But  I  spake  in  haste — 'twas  too  early  yet; 

With  the  heat  of  the  Southern  clime, 
What  wonder,  indeed,  that  it  only  yield, 

To  the  cooling  hand  of  time  ? 
So  many  were  they  that  could  not  see, — 

For  anger  is  ever  blind — 
Th'  ambitious  hand,  that  the  peace  of  years 

To  the  furnace  blast  consigned; 

To  scorch  and  burn  until  homes  were  not, 

And  estates  were  swept  away! 
And  the  realm  of  hope  was  a  bygone  thing, 

If  men  could  have  had  their  way  ! 
But  destiny  held  us  together  well; 

Somewhere  in  the  upper  sky, 
Was  a  hand  that  guided  our  broken  helm, 

Till  the  whirling  storm  went  by: — 


94  PATRIOTIC. 

And  the  dove  returned  with  the  olive  branch, 

That  told  of  a  solid  shore, 
Where  might  rest  the  ark  upon  higher  ground 

Than  ever  it  knew  before. 
For  destiny  knoweth  no  backward  step; 

E'en  through  a  sea  of  blood, 
The  child  up  climbs  to  a  higher  plane, 

Than  that  where  the  father  stood. 
#  #  *  *  *  *  * 

Though  fierce  the  fires  of  the  chemist,  death, 

Shall  we  count  all  struggle  lost? 
The  gold  that  remains  in  the  crucible, 

\Vould  we  barter  for  what  it  cost  ? 

Swift  on  the  wings  of  the  morning  speed 
To 'the  heights  of  our  summer  land, 

And  on  some  "  Lookout  "  of  battle  note, 
For  a  moment  take  your  stand: 

See!  down  in  the  smiling  vale  below, 

The  gifts  of  the  fruitful  soil 
Respond  to  the  not  unwilling  blow 

Of  the  self-paid   son  of  toil, — 

Imperilled,  for  aye,  by  lash  or  block, 

Or  fangs  of  the  cruel  hound, 
While  nestling  under  some  shadowy  rock, 

Is  the  home  of  contentment  found. 
With  the  ripple  of  waters,  that  turn  the  wheel, 

And  the  whirr  of  the  spindles  play, 
Comes  the  clank  of  the  hammer  that  moulds  the  steel 

To  the  needs  of  a  newer  day: — 

The  loom  comes  down  from  its  northern  slope, 
To  the  plains  of  the  waiting  South, 

To  sing  the  song  of  a  child  of  hope, 

That  was  born  at  the  cannon's  mouth. 

For  men  may  sow  to  the  tempest's  breath, 
But  the  seed  in  its  wayward  fall, 


PATRIOTIC.  95 

Is  quickened  to  fruitage,  th'  soil  beneath, 
By  the  hand  that  is  over  all. 

And  if,  with  the  harvest,  shall  come,  O  South, — 

Whatever  the  seed  time  cost,— 
The  fruits  of  a  larger  and  better  growth, 

Thy  "cause"  hath  been  never  "lost;  " 
Though  knowing  not  to  what  end  he  fought, 

No  hero  hath  died  in  vain, 
That  helped  to  figure  man's. problem  out, 

On  the  slate  of  thy  battle  plain. 

Fling  open  the  blinds!   let  the  sunlight  in! 

Let  the  incense  of  freedom  rise; 
Let  the  patriot  song  of  "  Our  Union  "  ring 

To  the  dome  of  our  azure  skies  ! 

And  our  eagle  shall  rise  upon  splendid  wing 

To  the  realm  of  unclouded  sun, 
While  an  hundred  millions  the  anthem  sing 

Of  an  hundred  states  in  one. 
( 

But  you  tell  me  "nay,  'tis  a  dreamer's  dream," 

And  you  echo  the  doubter's  cry, 
Of  "smouldering  embers,"  and  "latent  flame" 

Of  a  treasure  that  will  not  die; — 
That  lurks  on  the  flank  of  outgoing  years, 

To  chew  o'er  the  cud  of  its  sin; 
That  bows  to  its  idols,  or  sits  in  tears 

For  the  battles  it  could  not  win  ! 

But  what  if  the  beaten  gods  do  swarm, 

In  the  depths  of  some  hidden  cave  ? — 

Or  it  secession  in  spectral  form, 
.     Break  out  of  its  sodden  grave  ? 

It  is  but  as  the  smoke  of  the  battle  fray; 
The  wreck  of  some  bubble  burst; 

Or  the  harmless  thunder  that  howls  away, 

When  the  lightnings  have  done  their  worst. 


06  PATRIOTIC. 

As  our  nation  stood  around  Garfield's  bed, 

On  that  pitiless  summer's  day, — 
By  the  tears  that  fell,  or  the  words  that  were  said, 

Could  you  tell  me  the  blue  or  gray  ? 
Some  heads  had  erred  in  the  angry  strife, 

But  a  moment  had  buried  all 
In  a  common  grief;  while  a  newer  life, 

Was  born  with  the  ruffian's  ball. 


THANKSGIVING    FOR    VICTORY. 

GOD  of  our  fathers,  low 
Before  Thy  throne  we  bow, 

With  thanks  to  Thee: 
For  this,  our  country  dear, 
That  Thou  our  prayer  did'st  hear, 
And  did'st  her  standard  bear 

To  victory. 

On  southern  plains  afar, 
Above  the  din  of  war 

The  sound  goes  forth; 
The  swarthy  millions  hear 
These  words  of  lofty  cheer, 
And  welcome  their  new  year 

Of  Freedom's  birth. 

From  eastern  mountain  side, 
From  western  prairie  wide, 

From  sea  to  sea; 
Let  this  glad  song  arise 
Up  to  the  bending  skies, 
Truth  lives  and  error  dies, 

WE'RE  FREE,  WE'RE  FREE! 


PATRIOTIC.  97 

Columbia,  thy  domain, 
From  slavery's  hated  chain 

Shall  now  be  free; 
And  MAN  shall  stand  upright, 
Beneath  the  broad  sunlight, 
A  freeman,  in  his  might, 

Though  black  or  white. 

God  of  our  fathers,  low 
Before  Thy  throne  we  bow 

With  praise  to  Thee; 
That  Thou  our  prayer  did'st  hear 
For  this  our  country  dear; 
Vouchsafe  her  flag  to  bear 

"A  thousand  years." 


DON'T  FORGET  THEM. 


Do  not  forget  them.     The  summer  is  due; 
The  roses  are  tardy;  the  lilies  are  few; 
And  yet  in  the  woodlands,  and  yet  in  the  bowers, 
Somewhere,  I  know,  there  are  beautiful  flowers. 

Do  not  forget  them — wherever  they  sleep, 
With  earth  for  a  pillow  in  silence  so  deep  ! 
What  though  the  flowrets  be  many  or  few  ? 
Twine,  as  ye  can,  for  the  men  of  the  blue. 

Do  not  forget  them,  though,  over  their  bier, 
We  give  to  them  only  the  meed  of  a  tear; 
Give  them  remembrance  as  men  that  were  true; 
This,  at  the  least,  to  the  soldier  is  due. 

If  we  forget  them — ah  !  what  if  we  do  ? 
Losers  are  they,  then,  these  soldiers  of  blue  ? 
Nay:  for  I  say  to  you,  friend — in  a  word — 
Losers  are  they  that  have  duty  deferred. 


PATRIOTIC. 


MY  FATHER'S  FLAG  AND  YOURS. 


READ  AT  THE  DEDICATION    OK    THE    SOLDIERS*    MONUMENT    IN    BIRMINGHAM. 

I  STOOD  beneath  a  southern  sky,  and  on  a  mountain's  brow; 
A  troubled  cloud  lay  like  a  pall,  enshrouding  all  below, 
From  which  a  sound  of  thunder  told  of  evils  dire  concealed 
Beneath  its  folds;  some  destiny  of  darkness  unrevealed. 

1  looked  again;  the  cloud  was  gone,  while,  speeding  from  the 

vale, 

Upon  a  shadowy  steed,  and  white,  I  saw  a  rider  pale; 
And,  as  he  rode,  ten  thousand  graves  uplifted  from  the  sod 
Of  trampled  field,  and  bloody  plain,  where  late  the  foemen 

trod. 

I  heard  the  clank  of  falling  chains — forever  silent  now;— 
I  saw  the  crown  of  manhood  placed  upon  the  ebon  brow, 
And  then,  from  every  tower  and  staff,  along  our  southern 

shores, 
Unquestioned   swung    our    starry   flag — my   father's   flag   and 

yours. 

Through  northern  streets  again  was  heard  the  loud  trium- 
phant drum, 

As,  with  his  tattered  battle  flag,  came  "Johnny"  marching 
home 

With  trophies  earned  through  toilsome  years — or  stripe  or 
shoulder  bars; 

To  tell,  beside  the  crowning  hearth,  his  story  of  the  wars: — 

E'en  to  rehearse  how  haughty  sons  of  fair  Car'lina's  shore, 
Had  learned  of  "  chivalries  "  that  spurn  oppression  from  their 

door; — 
How   had   been    taught    the   head   to   bow,   wherever  on   our 

shores 
Swings  from  the  mast   yon  starry  flag — my  father's  flag  and 

yours. 


PATRIOTIC. 


99 


Upon  this  block,  to-day  unveiled — to  loving  fame  enshrined, — 
The  names  of  half  forgotten  men  on  glory's  list  we  find. 
"Forgotten  ?"  Aye;  yet,  only  as  the  tree  forgets  the  blow: 
The  surface  heals,  yet  evermore  is  found  the  scar  below. 

•• 

E'en  by  faith's  sharper,  closer  sight,  between  each  line  is  read 

Of  these  still  marching  ranks  to  join  the  'k  bivouac "  of  the 
dead; 

Where  tenting  out  on  heavenly  plains,  through  life's  long  end- 
less day, 

With  crossing  palm  to  friendship  true,  shall  meet  the  blue  and 
gray. 

Heroic  men  !     Before  this  shrine  with  bowed,  uncovered  head, 
The  patriarchs  of   all   coming   time,  with   reverent  feet   shall 

tread 
To  point  thy  deathless  names,  and  oft  with  Spartan  fondness 

tell, 
How  for  the  right,  as  'twas  revealed,  we  battled,  and  how  well. 

Heroic  men  !     Till  yonder  bronze  shall  melt  and  pass  away; 
Until  the  soft'ning  granite  e'en  shall  crumble  to  decay; 
Until,  indeed,  Old  Time  forgets  the  winding  of  his  clock, 
Like   him   who    stands    transfigured   on    yon    proud   uplifting 
rock — 

So  may  our  blood-bought  union  stand  upon  the  rock  sublime 
Of  truth,  and  righteousness  and  peace,  throughout  all  coining 

time: 

That,  looking  down  from  glory  heights,  forever  ye  may  know 
That  was  not  lost  your  sacrifice  for  native  land  below. 

What  sought  the  north  in  Dixie  land  ?  Why  tempted  men  the 

grave  ? 

Was  it,  alone,  that  they  might  break  the  shackles  of  the  slave  ? 
This  came  at  last,  in  God's  good  time,  yet  at  disunion's  door, 
The  great  boon  sought  was  that  their  arms  the   Union  might 

restore. 


100  PATRIOTIC. 

They  heard  the  sounding  story  of  old  Sumpter's  gallant  crew, 
And  throwing  down  th'  accustomed  spade,  the  plucky  sword 

they  drew, 

And  hurling  back  defiance  to  secession  in  its  lair, 
They  fought  and  prayed,  and  with  their  guns  did  answer  back 

the  prayer. 

What    if,    sometimes,    the    John    Brown    "soul"    within    their 

breasts  repined  ? 
With  steady  front  yet  "  marching  on  "  was  left  their  homes 

behind, 

Unquestioning  the  future  or  the  path  that  it  must  tread: 
Enough  to  hear  God's  bugle  call  and  follow  where  it  led. 

And  were  they  then  fanatics  ?     What  if  we  call  them  so  ? 
"Fanatics  "  are  the  men  that  lead  this  human  world  below: 
Forevermore,  for  conscience   sake,   they  tread  some  Plymouth 

Rock, 
Or  feed  the  flame,  or  swing  the  beam,  or  cross  the  crimson 

block. 

"  Fanatic  "  and  "  heretic  "  were  the  words  the  viper  hissed, 
When  the  foot  of  human  progress  trod  upon  its  slimy  nest. 
"  Heretic  "  to  the  dogmas  by  the  fathers  handed  down: 
"  Fanatic  "  in  the  holding  that — a  man  should  be  his  own  ! 

Where  Garrison  and  Phillips  stood,  to-day  the  nation  stands — 
Thanks  to  the   cannon   and  the   sword — with  freedom   in  its 

hands, 

Forgetful  and  forgiving  e'en  to  all  upon  our  shores 
Who   dared   to   trail   in   slav'ry's    mire,   my   father's   flag   and 

yours. 

Yes;  'twas  a  costly  victory.  But  who  shall  count  the  cost, 
When  measured  by  the  glories  that  so  nearly  we  had  lost  ? 
Shall  we  not,  then,  whose  eyes  have  seen  what  was  to  them 

denied, 
Who  for  the  sake  of  freedom's  cause,  went  down  beneath  the 

tide 


PATRIOTIC.  TOI 

That  surged  and  broke  from  cliff  to  cliff  on  southern  shores 

away, 
Shall  not  we  lift  our  grateful  thanks  for  this  our  glad  to-day? 

i 

Thanks   that    free    thought — untrammeled   speech — if   willing 

men,  or  no, 
Goes  on  with  strong   resistless  wave,  like  some   great  river's 

flow- 
That  sweeps  away  the  sunken  wreck  and  spreading  o'er  the 

plain, 
Leaves  as  its  boon  still  richer  soil  to  feed  the  summer  grain. 

Thanks  for  these  gallant  cavaliers,  that  trod  the  earth  and  boldr 
With  sword  in  hand  arid  shouldered  arm,  till  tyrannies  of  old 
Were  counted  as  the  things  that  were;  and,  marching  to  the 

sea, 
The  clank  of  falling  chains  kept  time  to  the  song-burst  of  the 

free. 

And  yet  how  great  was  found  the  task  of  tearing  down  the 

old 

To  build  the  new,  a  million  graves  their  tearful  tales  unfold. 
Since,  in  their  blood  our  heroes  laid  for  us  the  corner-stone, 
Let  it  be  ours  to  hew  the  walls  to  models  of  our  own; 

To  build  to  true  forgetfulness  of  color,  race,  and  clan: — 
Of  all  that,  in  the  past,  hath  set  the  man  against  the  man, 
So,  north  and  south,  from  sea  to  sea,  assurance  shall  be  ours 
That  hence,  forevermore  shall  float  my  father's  flag  and  yours. 

Misleader  of  the  bravest  brave  that  ever  trod  the  stage, 

Go  stand  aside  from  human  view,  that,  e'en  from  memory's 

page, 
Be  struck  the  name  that  but   recalls   those  bitterest,  darkest 

years, 
Which  bound  the  crape  upon  our  doors,  and  bathed  our  land 

in  tears. 


IO2  PATRIOTIC. 

Or.  better:  stretch  thy  guilty  hand  across  the  bloody  line, 
And  swear  to  nevermore  desert  your  father's  flag,  and  mine: 
E'en  bending  down  beneath  that  full  repentance  that  restores, 
Forgiveness  ask  before  the  shrine  of  your  great  dead,  and  ours. 

What  though  with  ghoulish  hand  ye  stirred  the  embers  of  the 

past, 

Invoking  e'en  the  withering  flame,  of  war's  red  furnace  blast  ? 
As  well  to  turn  yon  dial  hand  upon  a  backward  way, 
And  hope  to  keep  the  pulse  of  time  from  marking  off  the  day. 

The  train  moves  on,  from  age  to  age  ! — their  corses,  cold  and 

black,— 
The   men   that   block   progression's  way,  lie   thick   along   the 

track. 
Howe'er  is  pressed  our  puny  "  break,"  the  great  swift  wheels 

go  on, 
And  up  the  steep  ascent  of  time  toward  the  eternal  noon. 

Who  shapes  the   end  by  men   rough  hewn,  securely  sits   the 

throne, 

Though  discontent  may  swagger  till  its  fields  are  oversown 
With  weeds  of  shiftless  husbandry,  and  o'er  its  cities  tall, 
Grim  desolation's  hand  may  fling  oblivion's  dusty  pall. 

There  comes  a  time,  O  fallen  chief,  when,  where  the  chattel 

trod 

Before  thy  lash,  shall  yet  be  found  the  victories  of  God: 
In  altars  raised  to  thankfulness  on  all  thy  sunny  shores, 
That  treason  failed  to  tarnish  e'en  your  father's  flag  and  ours. 


PATRIOTIC.  103 

COMPANY    "Z." 


OF    THE    HOME    (JTARl),     1883. 

PROUD   to   be  hailed  as  comrade  by  this  gallant  fighting 
corps, 
I    got   your   welcome   summons,  boys,  and   straightway  to  the 

door 

Brought  up  old  war  Pegassus,  all  accoutered,  "cap-a-pie," 
To  charge  upon  these  Cheshire  hills  with  staunch  old  Company 
"Z." 

Sometimes  you  fellows  that  went  in  so  fierce  to  the  melee, 
Because  we  held  our  head  so  dear,  have  sneered  at    Company 

"Z." 

But,  boys,  I'd  rather  here,  to-day,  partake  of  Cheshire  bread, 
Than  to  have  lain  these  twenty  years  among  the  bravest  dead, 
That  ever  bivouacked  with  the  worm  in  southern  march  or 

fen, 
Or  stifled  in  the  fetid  air  of  Libby's  prison  pen. 

"  Glory  ?"   Oh,  yes!    See,  on  the  height  the  red-mouthed  rebel 

gun! 
At  every  flash,   in   writhing  death,  goes   down  some  mother's 

son; 

Some  husband,  father,  that  hath  left  his  memories  behind, — 
Wife,  children,  friends — for  what  but  this  ?  to  die  for  human 

kind. 

But  what  cares  "  humankind"   for  him?  or  for  his  deeds  so 

brave  ? 
By  whom   are  cast  the  memory   wreaths  that  freshen  on  his 

grave  ? 
Not  often  by  for  whom  he  gave   his  heart's  best  blood  and 

warm, 
But  by  who  foughtfthe  battle  through,  survivors  of  the  storm. 

Aye,  take  your  laugh  at  Company  "  Z,"  but   in  your  moments 
cool, 


10_j.  PATRIOTIC. 

Say,  if  a  thousand  times,  you  did  not  vote  yourself  a  fool 
For  turning  back  on  happiness,  to  fight  his  battles  through, 
That  would  not  lift  a  finger  to  befriend  a  "  boy  in  blue." 

Ah!  could  they  but   half  comprehend   the  struggle  that  hath 

been, 
"Men  were  not  found  ungrateful,  quite,  to  whom  hath   died  for 

men: 
To  read  in  cold  black  lettered   line,   how,  struggling  with  the 

tide, 
Of    fiendish  strife,   somewhere    afar,    an    hundred    men    have 

died: 

Mangled,  and  torn,  and  trampled  'neath  the  charging  squad- 
ron's hoof, 

Was  but  "  an  incident  of  war,"  save  to  some  cottage  roof, 

When  came,  with  crushing  weight',  the  news  that  Private 
Brown,  or  Jones, 

Upon  some  far  off  battle  sod  had  left  his  whitened  bones. 

God  ruleth  justly,  well,  we  say;  yet  do  the  sparrows  fall, 
While   strengthens   He  the  vulture's  wing  above    the  forests 

tall? 

Was  not  the  Chaplain  used  to  say  of  Him  that  rules  on  high, 
41  The  soldier  that  shall  ask   the   boon — He'll  send  the  bullet 

by?" 

But,   did'nt  you   see,   an   hundred  times,  the  praying  soldier 

fall, 
While  some  vile,  bounty-jumping  wretch  went  safely  through  it 

all? 

Death,  somehow,  always  seemed  to  choose  the  best  of  any  two! 
I  could  not  understand  it  then;   I  cannot  now — can  you? 

A  single  life,  save  to  itself,  is  little  after  all: 

The  merest  trifle  in  the  scale  of  this  terrestrial  ball; 

And  whether  hurrying  to  the  front,  or  scurrying  to  the  rear, 

The  diff 'rence  we  may  scarcely  note  in  that  millennial"  year, 


PATRIOTIC.  IO5 

When  time  hath"  worked  the  problem  out,  perfecting  from  the 

clod, 
By  fit  survivals  of  the  best,  the  ideal  of  a  God. 

•So  here  among  the  Cheshire  hills,  'neath  this  reunion  tree, 
I  give,  to  all,  the  friendly  grip  of  Mythic  Company  "  Z," 
Which,  though  it  shirked  the  battle  test,  with  rebel   stripe  and 

bar, 
Nor  dipped  its  sword  in  human  gore  amid  the  clash  of  war, 

Yet  represents  the  mighty  host,  that  followed,  year  by  year, 
The  Union  cause,  with  loyal  soul,  and  backed  it  with  a  tear 
That  welled  up  from  the  pockets,  till,  triumphant  in  the  wars, 
Uprose,  above  secession's  might,  one  flag  with  all  the  stars. 


OLD    AND    NEW. 


READ    AT    MEETING    OF    PRESS    REPORTERS,    MERIDEN. 

IN  days  of  old,  when  Great  Jehovah  sat  in  state  on  "  Awful 
Throne," 
Smiling  on  who  sang  his  praises — frowning  at   who   gave  him 

none, 
Fearing  that  their  humblest  serving  might   have,  somehow,  in 

the  past, 
Proved  without  avail,  our  fathers  organized  a  solemn  fast. 

Hoping  thus  by  abstination  for  a  time  from  meat  and  drink, 
Better  of  his  erring  children  so  to  make  Jehovah  think, 
Though  with  sinful  needs  as   many,   yet   (unlike  our  fathers)' 

we 
Keeping  to  the  old  observance,  spell  our  fasting  with  an  E. 

Trusting,   doubtless,   all,   and   fully   for    the  coming  bye  and 

bye, 

That  howe'er  our  forms  be  battered,  and  our  matter  go  to  //',. 
Yet,  of  time,  will  there  be  ample  under  some  eternal  roof, 
Full  to  justify  our  pages  and  correct  our  every  proof. 

******* 
I  have  neverlought  a  battle  with  a  bullet-loaded  gun — 
Always  thought  that,  had  I  done  so,   I    had   been   the  first  to- 
run; 

Never  have  I  played  at  football  with  the  dynamite,  nor  e'en 
Have  I  tried  the  rapid  transit  of  the  servants'  kerosene. 


OCCASIONAL.  107 

Yet   that   one   is  lacking  courage,    in  this  honored  presence, 

who 

Dares  the  role  of  a  spring  poet,  cannot  be  entirely  true, 
For  than  dynamite  or  bullet  to  the  weaver  of  spring  verse, 
Reports  from  your  exploding  pencils  might   a   thousand  times 

be  worse. 

Therefore    is    it    all    my   asking,    that    you    kindly    hear    me 

through, 
While   I  sing   of    God  and    Progress, — of  the  old  and  of  the 

new.  • 


Once  a  tree  was  stripped  of  branches — down  among  its  root- 
lets dark, 

Something  rallying  wondrous  forces,  pushing  outward  through 
the  bark: 

Bursting  buds  as  if  for  breathing — moulding,  by  some  mystic 
power, 

From  the  upward  flowing  juices,  branch,  and  twig,  and  leaf,  and 
flower. 

Though  denounced  as  pantheistic,   I  shall  say  that  God  was 

there, 
God,  as   Life,    as  growth,   or  progress — God  whose  throne  is 

everywhere; 
Even  He  that  leadeth  nations  through  the  waters,  through  the 

mire, 
Out  of  darkness,  out  of  bondage,  by  the  cloud  and  by  the  fire. 


Outward  from   our  cabin  window  looking  tow'rd  the  setting 

sun, 
One    might    think    the   world    without    him    bounded    by   the 

horizon, 
While,  in  fact,  beyond  the  hilltops,  and  beneath  some  farther 

sky, 
Sunsets  turned  to  morning  splendor  on  the  eastern  summits  lie. 


I08  OCCASIONAL. 

Thus,  among  his  temple  builders,  sat  the  princely  Solomon, 
In  despairing  words  declaring,  "  Nothing  new  beneath  the 

sun  ;  " 
While  beyond  his  petty  vision   worlds  of  mighty   truths,  and 

grand, 
Unrevealed,  and  all  about  him,  waited  time's  unveiling  hand:— 

Waited  for  men's  evolution — for  the  talking  of  the  wire, 

For  our  types  and  printing  presses,  for  the  forge  and  for  the 

fire. 

Never,  in  his  wisest  moment,  could  this  kingly  mortal  tell, 
Why  to  earth,  and  never  skyward,  was  it  that  the  apple  fell. 

Day  and  night  came,  and  forever  by  the  sun's  diurnal  round; 
Earth    was    flat,   and  firmly   anchored,   right   side   up    in    the 

profound, 

While,  unto  his  inner  vision,  only  this,  to  him  was  true, 
God  was  God,  and  all  creation  was  created  for  the  Jew. 

*  *  *  * 

Under  time's  eternal  arches  moves  the  great  procession  on; 
Judah,  captive  'mong  the  willows,  sitteth  down  by  Babylon. 
Seasons  pass,  and  months  and  ages;  underneath  the  crescent's' 

blaze, 
Judah  struggles  with  the  Moslem  and  for  Calvary  she  prays. 

Then  the  flashing  of  the  helmets  of  the  long  crusading 
line, 

Fired  by  hatred  of  the  crescent,  'mong  of  the  hills  of  Pales- 
tine, 

Bringeth  down  the  age  of  sorrow  to  the  Christian,  as  the 
Jew — 

Drops  the  vail  upon  the  old  time — lifts  the  curtain  on  the 
new. 

#  #  *  * 

Now  behold  the  doughty  pilgrim,  and  the  wilderness  pro- 
found ! 

Through  the  forest  aisles  and  arches  how  his  Sabbath  bells- 
resound  ! 


OCCASIONAL.  109 

Deep    among    the    mighty    shadows,  groping    blindly  for  the 

true, 
Fearing  God,  and  hating  tyrants,  yet,  himself,  a  tyrant  too. 

Steam,   to  him,   gives    no   revealment   of    the    wonders  of  its 

power: 
Kettles   struggling   with   their  forces   are  but    kettles    boiling 

o'er: 
Lightnings  flash  a  proffered  service,  stretching  forth  a  willing 

hand, 
But  they  speak,  as  in  a  language  that  are  none  to  understand. 

King   of    earth   is   brawny   muscle.     Science,   brains,  of  little 

worth, 

By  the  side  of  spade  and  shovel  for  the  tilling  of  the  earth. 
Only  love  hath  lightened  labor,  woman  is  the  needle's  slave; 
Never  yet  hath  wheel  of  "  Singer  "  sang  a  single  labor  stave. 

Yet  is  here  and  there  a  whisper  of  some  future  glory  found, 
Here  and  there  a  head  uplifting,  waiting  to  be  crowned. 
Ever  as  they  travel  onward  by  their  rugged  way  appears, 
Something   great   in   bud  or  blossom   left  to   ripen   with   the 

years. 
*  *  *  * 

Pulpits   do  not   all    the  preaching,    have   not  all  the  gospels 

quite, 
Left   to   such,   alone,   forever    hath    remained    earth's    mental 

night. 

Back  of  all,  upon  the  picture,  plain  is  the  line  outdrawn, 
Marking  where  our  ancient  craftsmen  from  the  shadows  woke 

the  dawn. 

Guttenberg,   or   Faust  ?     What   matter   which   the  favorite  of 

fame  ? 
Over  both,    in    some    proportion,    doubtless    heav'ns    afflatus 

came. 

Working  out  their  mighty  problem,  with  an  energy  sublime, 
Lo!  the  carvers  at  their  benches  carving  out  the  coming 

time  ! 


HO  OCCASIONAL. 

Crude  the  lettered  blocks,  and  simple,  yet  is  heard   from  age 

to  age 
Hammer's  blow  that  locked  and   bound   them   for  the  world's 

first  printed  page. 
Heard  the  blow  that  rudely  shattered  priestly  shackle,  kingly 

chain, 
Levelled  up  the  grade  of  manhood,  wrought  the  empire  of  the 

brain. 

Back  returning  to  the  present,  what  might  these  old  craftsmen 

think 

Of  a  press,  upon  a  morning,  'eating  up  a  ton  of  ink  ? 
Some  three   hundred    thousand    papers,    Sabbath  morning  to 

beguile  ! 
For  a  single  day's  edition — measuring  paper  by  the  mile  ! 

Proud  although   of    past  achievments,   peering  out  into    the 

day, 
Still  the  Present — head   uncovered — standeth  in  the  dawnlight 

gray; 
With  its  face  turned   never    backward,   but   toward  the  over 

blue, 
"  Neath  the  sun,"  or  far  beyond  it,  seeking  yet  for   something 

new. 

Lo  the  cloud  and  fiery  pillar!     Canaan  only  just  ahead! 

Who  shall  prove  a  better  leader  than   they   that  have  already 

led? 
Than  the  men  that  are  out-marshalled   and   in  line  upon  the 

plain, 
Pen  in  hand  and  ready  harnessed — men  of  heart,  and  men  of 

brain  ? 

From  the  sunshine,  from  the  shadows,  from  the  highways  and 

the  slums; 

From  where'er  is  raging  battle,  to  the  press  reporter  comes; 
He  has  raked  the  social  gutter  for  a  bit  or  two  of  spice 
That  may  suit  the  morning  palate,  if  it  be  not  over  nice  ! 


OCCASIONAL.  Til 

He  has  interviewed  the  parson  with  a  deferential  awe, 
E'en,  perhaps,  has  played  detective  in  the  interest  of  law; 
He  has  studied  human  nature,  but  to  find  it  very  mean, 
Where   was  meanness  from  appearance,  least  expected  to  be 

seen: — 
While,  perhaps,    among    the    lowly — handicapped    from    very 

birth, 
Has  been  found,  indeed,  the  proudest  and  the  bravest  of  the 

earth. 

In  his  hands  the  peace  and  welfare  of  the  family  is  placed, 
Though   the   men   that  by  their  follies  have  the  innocent  dis- 
graced; 

And  he  gets  a  malediction,  or  a  blessing  on  his  head, 
By  the  words  that  must  be  spoken,  or  the  words  that  are  not 
said. 

So  he  gathers  and  he  garners  of  the  day  and  of  the  hour: 
Sometimes  welcomed,  as  he  should  be — often  frozen  from  the 

door. 

Out  is  thrown  uncounted  papers,  pages  of  life's  open  book; 
But  who  made  it  hides  within  it,  as  the  river  hides  the  brook. 

So,  companions,  would  I  counsel  that  our  future  path  be  led, 
Not  as  'mong  the  glinting  statues  of  some  crypta  of  the  dead, 
But  along  the  living  present,  with  our  banners  all  unfurled, 
And  our  hand  upon  a  lever  that  is  moving  on  a  world. 

We  are  one  yet  are  we  many:  one  in  mission,  purpose,  aim; 
Many  for  the  temples  building;  one  to  keep  the  altar  flame. 
Ours  it  is  to  pierce  the  cloister,  letting  in  the  light  sublime; 
As  each  broken  sash  reveals   it,  sweeping  down  the  web  and 
grime; 

Ours  to  keep  the  faith  of  ages,  only  as  that  shall  be  true, 
Building  broader,  building  higher,  than  our  fathers  ever  knew; 
Ours  to  lead  emancipation  from  all  tyranny  of  ills — 
From  the  bigotry  that  bindeth,  and  the  ignorance  that  kills. 


H2  OCCASIONAL. 

JUST  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 


[THIS  POEM  WAS  READ  BY  MR.  STORRS  AT  THE  CELEBRATION  OF  THE 
TWENTIETH  ANNIVERSARY  OF  HIS  WEDDING.] 

JUST  twenty  years  ago,  wife, 
(How  swiftly  flows  the  tide,) 
I  promised  true,  for  weal  or  woe, 

To  take  you  for  my  bride; 
With  radiant  beams  of  hope,  wife, 

Our  sky  seemed  all  aglow, 
For  love's  young  dream  was  then  our  theme, 
Just  twenty  years  ago. 

Ah  !  well  do  I  remember,  wife, 

(But  yesterday  it  seems,) 
The  airy  castles  which  we  built 

In  those  bright  morning  dreams; 
And  how,  when  up  the  stream  of  life, 

We  paddled  our  canoe, 
We  placed  love's  angel  at  the  helm, 

Just  twenty  years  ago. 

Sometimes  the  dashing  waves,  wife, 

O'erwhelmed  us  with  their  spray, 
But  the  flowers  along  the  banks,  wife, 

Grew  brighter  all  the  way. 
Aye,  more:  fruition  follows  bloom, 

And  filled  our  cup  with  joy, 
When  in  our  arms  the  angel  placed 

Our  blessed,  darling  boy. 

Then  once  again  the  angel  came; 

A  bud  of  hope  was  given; 
But  blasts  untimely  passing  by, 

It  faded  into  heaven. 
But  God  is  good,  his  arm  sustained, 

And  as  the  years  swept  by, 


OCCASIONAL.  IT3 

The  clouds  were  transient  which  obscured 
The  brightness  of  our  sky. 

Oh,  wife  and  mother  !  names  most  dear 

In  every  land  and  nation, 
Oh  woman,  noblest  gift  to  man, 

God's  last  and  best  creation: 
Her  mind  embalmed  in  living  truth, 

Her  heart  of  love  the  shrine; 
Her  ways  the  ways  of  pleasantness, 

Her  mission  most  divine  ! 

And  thou,  good  wife,  of  all  the  throng, 

The  dearest  and  the  best  ! 
My  vow  to  you  I  here  renew, 

And  press  you  to  my  breast; 
And,  hand  in  hand,  as  up  we  came, 

So  down  the  stream  we'll  row, 
And  love  shall  guide  us  just  the  same 

As  twenty  years  ago. 


THE    BRIGHT    TO-MORROW. 


READ    AT    A    KNIGHT    OF    HONOR    BANQUET. 

IN  days  of  old,  when  warriors  bold, 
In  glory  clad  went  knighting 
Through  many  a  land,  with  prowess  grand, 

"  Fair  ladye-loves  "  delighting, 
To  be  a  knight  in  armor  bright, 

On  gallant  charger  mounted, 
By  kings  of  earth — of  nob'lest  birth— 
The  proudest  thing  was  counted. 

Though  cloistered  wall,  or  castle  tall, 
May  not  perchance  be  needed, 


OCCASIONAL. 

As  once,  of  yore,  to  keep  the  door 

Of  purity  unraided; 
Yet,  in  these  days,  chivalric  ways 

Take  still  the  same  direction; 
In  honor  laid — still  love  is  made 

Our  mutual  protection. 

While  this  we  know,  the  direst  foe 

That  can  beset  the  mortal; 
With  cunning  craft  and  poisoned  shaft 

Stands  waiting  at  the  portal, 
Each  courteous  Knight  with  sword  of  right,. 

To  prove  the  most  deserving, 
This  maxim  yet  must  not  forget, 

That  knighthood  means  but  serving. 

Right  well  he  claims  the  knightly  name, 

Who  'gainst  the  day  of  trial, 
For  child,  or  wife,  doth  lead  a  life 

Of  sturdy  self-denial. 
Far  up  the  height  such  gallant  knight 

On  love's  great  ladder  climbing, 
Shall  as  his  meed  find  heav'n  indeed, 

Each  noble  act  subliming. 

With  bated  breath,  men  talk  of  death, 

Nor  dare  to  face  its  danger; 
Yet,  friends,  with  you,  I  think  'tis  true,. 

The  spectre  is  no  stranger; 
Since  day  by  day  along  your  way 

Assessments,  oft  accruing 
For  dollars  due,  or  one,  or  two, 

Bespeak  his  direst  doing. 

His  figures  are  your  studious  care; 

You  figure  men's  endurance, 
And,  if  the  bell  rings  out  a  knell, 

You  figure  their  insurance. 


OCCASIONAL.  115 

This  is  the  human  side,  indeed, 

Your  interests  must  be  cared  for; 
Assessments  made  cannot  be  paid, 

Unless  they  are  prepared  for. 

Men  cannot  be  unselfish,  quite; 

"  One  "  is  our  first  great  number; 
Yet,  in  the  breast,  that  which  is  best 

Should  not  be  left  to  slumber. 
Still  may  each  knight  as  he  hath  might 

Uphold  each  child  of  sorrow; 
While  it  shall  wait  some  better  fate, 

That  dawneth  with  the  morrow. 

The  lightnings  flash,  the  thunders  crash, 

The  reckless  sailor  warning; 
Black  tempests  rail,  yet  never  fails 

The  sunlight  in  the  morning. 
Soon  comes  the  night  when  earth's  rush  light 

Shall  quench  its  feeble  burning; 
Yet  courage,  friend;  the  night  shall  end 

With  sunlight  in  the  morning. 

For  woman,  then,  dear  brother  men — 

By  all  that  love  hath  won  her; 
For  children  dear,  in  this  good  cheer, 

I  pledge  the  "  Knights  of  Honor." 
With  knightly  skill,  so  may  they  still 

Uphold  each  child  of  sorrow; 
And  be  it  theirs,  through  all  the  years, 

To  brighten  every  morrow. 


1T6  OCCASIONAL. 

THE  STORY  OF  THE  YEARS. 


WRITTEN    BY    REQUEST    FOR    BEARDSLEY's    HISTORY    OF    DERBY. 

'JTS  one  that  athirst  in  a  desert,  in  the  ma/e  of  some  feverish 

JL  dream, 

May  hear,  as  it  were   in  the   distance,  the   babble  of  brooklet 

and-  stream, 
So,  dimly,  the  voice  of  the  ages,  comes  rippling  along  to  mine 

ears, 
As  I  gaze  on  the  mystical  curtain  that  hideth  the  vale  of  the 

years; 
And  I  see — or  in  fact  or  in  fancy — grim  shadows  but  half  way 

defined, 
That  crowd  on  the  face   of  the  canvass  from  a  world  that  is 

fading  behind. 

Lo!     I  stand   'mid   the   tombs   of    my   fathers!    before    me  a 

vision  of  green, 
With  a  glory  of  hill  and  of  mountain,  of  meadow  and  river 

between; 
And  the  rocks,  that  are  storied,  I  question  for  the  joys  and  the 

hopes  and  the  fears, 
With  the  scheming  and  crowning  ambitions,  that  lie  in  the  vale 

of  the  years: — 

For  the   swaddling  clothes   of    the   infant,    the    staff  and  the 

finishing  shroud, 
And  again  is  the  question  repeated,  "  For  what  shall  a  mortal 

be  proud  ? " 
True,  we  talk  of  our  valleys  and  hillsides,  our  fields  with   their 

cities  besown; 
But  where  are  the  deeds  for  defending  the  realms  that  we  claim 

as  our  own  ? 

But  yester  their  owners  were  ploughing  the  soil   where   their 
ashes  now  sleep, 


OCCASIONAL.  117 

And  to-morrow  shall  others  be  sowing  for  others  to  come  and 
to  reap. 

From  the  past  we  but  borrow  the  present;  for  the  future  we 
hold  it  in  trust, 

While  for  us,  at  the  last,  there  remaineth,  at  best,  but  a  hand- 
ful of  dust. 

And    so,    as    I    muse    in    the    darkness,    a   hand  on    the    dial 

appears, 
And   slowly   uprises  the  curtain   that   hideth   the  vale  of  the 

years; 
And  from  out  of  the  world  of  the  present,  with  eyes  that  are 

dewy  and  blind, 
I  turn  to  the  shadows  in  waiting  from   a  world  that  is  fading 

behind. 

II. 

And  quick,  with  a  yell  of  defiance — a  flourish  of  hatchet  and 

knife, 
A  horde  of  wild  demons  are  writhing  in  the  wage  of  a  terrible 

strife; 
From  the  hedges  of  willow  and  alder,  like  panthers  they  spring 

on  the  foe; — 
From   the   shelter   of    rock   and  of    thicket   their  flint-headed 

arrows  they  throw, 

Till  the  sun  goeth  down   on   the   battle,   and   the  war-field  is 

reddened  with  gore, 
And  the  squaw  andj  pappoose  are  bewailing  the  hunter  that 

cometh  no  more. 
The  vanquished  steal  off  in  the  shadows,  to  the  depths  of  the 

forest  away, 
With  a  scowl  of  defiance  and  warning  for  the  deeds  of  a  luckier 

day; 

While  the  victors,  with   scalp-lock  and   trophy  of  hatchet  and 

arrow  and  bow, 
Prepare  for  a  savage  thanksgiving  for  the  valor  that  conquered 

the  foe. 


Il8  OCCASIONAL. 

The  faggots  are  brought  and  are  lighted,  the  sacrifice  bound  to 

the  stake, 
And  the  shrieks  of  the   victim   and   victor,  the  depths  of  the 

forest  awake. 

On  the  banks  of  the   Paugassuck  buried,    in   the   sand  of  the 

Pootatuck  shore, 
Is  the  skull  and  the  arm  and  the  arrow,  but  they   startle  with 

terror  no  more; 
For  the  arrow  is  broken  and  wasted;  the  bow-string  is  severed 

in  twain; 
And  the  smoke  of  the  war  dance  upcurleth  no  more  from  the 

forest  or  plain. 

III. 

Along  through  the  highlands  and  lowlands,  'neath  the  shadows 

of  forest  and  rock, 
With  its  blue  eye  uplifed  to   heaven,  flow  the  waters  of  fair 

Pootatuck — 
Now  sending  its  tide  to  the  northward,  now  whirling  it  back  to 

the  sea, 
Now   curling  to'  sleep  in  the  eddies  'neath  the  arms  of  some 

sheltering  tree. 
The    eagle   looks   down   on   its  beauty  from  its  perch  on  the 

loftiest  bough, 
And  the  seagull — pray,   which    is   the   shadow,  the  bird  that's 

above  or  below  ? 

Lo!    turning   the   rocks   at   the  narrows,  the  sail  of  a  pilgrim 

appears, — 
A    step  in  the   wonderful   progress  to    follow    in    line  of   the 

years! 
The  pioneers,  whetting  their  axes,  spring  ashore  and  at  once 

on  the  plains 
The    wigwam    gives  place  to  the  cabin,  as  the  brute  to  the 

empire  of  brains. 

One  by  one  are  the  chimneys  uplifted;  the  smoke  of  the  fire- 
side upcurls 


OCCASIONAL.  119 

Through  the  forests  of  green,  like  an   incense,  as  the  banner 

of  progress  unfurls, 
Till  the  voice  of  the  genius  of  labor,  like  an  anthem  is  heard 

in  the  land, 
And  the  young  feet  of  commerce  are  planted  on  the  marge  of 

the  Pootatuck  strand. 

The  years  sweep  along  in  their  cycles;  the  soldiers  fall  out  by 

the  way; 
But  a  thousand  step  into  their  places  for  the  fight  of  the  ever 

to-day. 
The  back  of  the  toiler  is  bended  to  the  cross  of  his   wearying 

toil 
Till  he  goes,  like  a  tale  that  is  ended,  to  rest  in  the  covering 

soil. 

Thus  ever  it  is  with  thee,  as  it  is  with  the  birth  of  men, 

With  the  throe  and  the  pang  of  labor  must  the  struggle  of  life 

begin; 
Yet  the  laborer  toward  the  surface — like  the  coral  beneath  the 

sea — 
Buildeth  ever  the  deep  foundations  for  the  temple  that  is  to 

be. 

In  the  depths  of  his  inner  nature,  in   the  face  of  his  outward 

form, 
Men  partake  of  their  near  surroundings — of  the  sunshine  or  of 

the  storm; 
Of  the  mountain  or  of  the  valley,  of  the  rocks  or  the  savage 

wild, 
As  the  rod  of  an  angry  father  makes  forever  an  angry  child. 

So  it  was  with  these  early  pilgrims;  they  had  cowered  beneath 

the  rod 
Of  a  church  that  was  made  by  statute — which   only  revered  a 

God 
Of  vengeance  and  retribution;  of  the  eye  that  must  have  the 

eye; 
That  spake  from  the  top  Sinai,  but  not  upon  Calvary. 


120  OCCASIONAL. 

And  so,  as  from  persecution  they  fled  to  the  western  wild, 
They  prayed,  'mid  the  howling   tempests,  to  a  God  that  had 

never  smiled, 

For  the  sword  of  the  sons  of  Levi,  to  smite  the  heretic  crew, 
And  th'  oppressed  became  the  oppressor  as  the  tree  of  their 

fortune  grew. 

Though  a  host  of  the  Christian  virtues  they  brought  with  the 

western  wind, 
Yet  the  greatest   of  these  are  Charity,  and  that  had  they  left 

behind, 

As,  useless  to  fight  the  forest.      Faith  never  had  overthrown 
A   mountain;    and  as  for   Mercy,  that  belonged  to  the  elect 

alone. 

On  each  side  was  a  daily  battle  with  rock  and  the  thorny  fen; 
With  the  wolf  and  the  savage  panther,  or  with  still  more  savage 

men; 
Where,  then,  were  the  wonder,  pray  you,   that   their   worship 

was  force  and  fear  ? 
That  so  little  was  found  to  soften,  where  so  little  was  found  to 

cheer. 

And  yet  were  they  brave   and   noble;  in  their  manhood,  even 

grand, 
With  errors  but  scarce  remembered,  since  they   came  with  an 

honest  hand 
That  was  daily  upon  the  pages  of  the   well   thumbed  law  and 

word, 
And    which — as   did   read   the   letter — was   the    law    that    the 

conscience  heard. 

IV. 

The  woods  have  come  down  from  the  hillside  at  the  sound  of 

the  woodman's  stroke, 
And  the  shipwright  hath   deftly  fashioned   the  bough   of  the 

sturdy  oak 
Yea,  and   where   was  the  heathen  council — the  stake  with  its 

savage  rite, 


OCCASIONAL.  121 

Stands  th'  church  with  its  heav'nward  finger,  and  th'  cot  with 
its  cheerful  light. 

Where  the  voice  of  the   sainted   Mansfield,  through   his  three 

score  years  and  te'n, 
Tells  the  tale  of  the  great  redemption  for  the  "lost"  of  the 

sons  of  men; 
And  the  sons  of  the  plough  and   anvil  lift  their  morning  and 

evening  prayer 
To  God  for  His  daily  bounty  and  the  arm  of  His  daily  care. 

The  rocks,  and  the  service  as  before  time,  look  down  on  the 

waters  sweet 
Of  the  winding  and  beautiful  river;  but  where  are  the  tripping 

feet 
Of  the  swain  and   his  chosen  maiden   that,  of  old,  from  the 

village  kirk 
Hand  in  hand  went  into  the  forest,  as  the  doves  went  into  the 

ark? 

Gone  like  the  beautiful  river,  and  down  to  the  waiting  sea, — 
Never,  they  tell   us,   returning  from  their  journeyings — he  or 

she; 
Yet  they  live  in  their  deeds  accomplished;  in  the  acres  of  tardy 

soil 
Outwrung   from  the  surly  forest,  by  the  hand  of  their  sturdy 

toil; 

Yea,   they  live  in  their  children's  glory;  in  the  fruits  of  the 

rounded  hills; 
In   the  beauty  of  spire  and  turret;  in  the  clack  of  the  busy 

mills; 
For  the  steps  in  the  upward  journey  that  would   enter  within 

the  gates 
Must  forever  remain  untaken,  while  the  first  on  the  threshold 

waits. 


122  OCCASIONAL. 

V. 

Men  may  talk  of  deeds  of  conquest  on  the  land  or  on  the 
main, 

Yet  behind  the  scene  is  woman  with  her  hand  on  the  guiding 
rein; 

So  my  muse,  with  pen  historic,  nevermore  forget  to  bless 

Ruth,  Naomi,  and  their  daughters — blossoms  of  the  wilder- 
ness. 

Not  a  left-hand  cypher,  surely;  whoso  either  made  a  bride, 
Ever  on  life's  outward  journey,  found  an  unit  by  his  side. 
Pure  of  heart,  and  sweet  of  purpose,  best  beloved  of  sire  and 

son, 
Yet  was  theirs  an  endless    struggle    with   the    labor    "  never 

done." 

Few  their  wants  indeed  and  simple;  once  the  year  a  gingham 

gown; 

Costly  silk  and  mantua  makers,  luxuries  to  them  unknown; 
What  if  on  a  Sabbath  morning,  o'er  the  meadow's  dewy  sod 
Went  the  maiden,  dainty  tripping,  even  to  the  house  of  God, 

Ere  she  donned   the  precious  slipper  ?     Of  the   two  that  she 

possessed, 
Sole  of  art  and  sole  of  nature,  nature's  work  would  wear  the 

best; 
What — although    the    bare    suggestion    should    some    modern 

maiden  shock; — 
What  if  at  the  church  or  party,  she  did  wear  the  linsey  frock  ? 

It  was  hers,  her  hands  had  won  it!  carded,  aye,  had  spun  the 

wool! 
Wove  the  cloth  and   made   the   garment!    was   not -then   her 

triumph  full  ? 

Held  she  not  as  high  a  station — self-reliant,  brave  and  firm — 
As  some  helpless   slave   of  fashion   trembling   at   a   mouse  or 

worm  ? 


OCCASIONAL.  123 

There  she  stands!  go  bow  before    her,  proud   New  England's 

Mother  Queen! 
"  Naked  feet! "     Oh   well,   what   matter,   feet   and  hands   and 

heart  are  clean! 
Linsey   dress,    and   home-made    bonnet  ?    pockets,    herb    and 

fennel  filled  ? 
Aye,  but  in  the  time  of  trouble  she  was  "herb"  and  wonder 

skilled. 

First   to   give   new  eyes   a  greeting,  last  to  catch  the  fleeting 

breath; 
First  to  bring  hope's  consolation,  last  to   leave   the   house  of 

death; 
41  Naught  for  self  but  all  for  others — "  this  her  motto;  doing 

good — 
This  her  daily  round  of  practice!   hers  a  life's  beatitude. 

Children's  pride,   and    manhood's   treasure  !    best  beloved  of 

all,  I  ween; 
There  she  stands!  go  bow  before  her!   proud   New  England's 

Mother  Queen! 

VI. 

It  is  night  and,  behold  !  in  the  valley  afar  toward  the  blue  of 
the  sea, 

A  white  mist  is  rising  in  flashes  over  headland  of  crag  and  of 
tree; 

And  a  sound,  as  if  heavily  breathing  with  lungs  that  were  tire- 
less and  strong, 

Over  rocks,  through  the  bushland  and  wildwood,  some  monster 
were  charging  along  ! 

Clickety  click,  clickety   click,  round   the   headlands !    Is   that 

thunder  which  startles  our  ears  ? 
Or  an  earthquake  which  shakes  the  foundations,  as  the  gleam 

of  the  head-light  appears? 
-Stand  aside  !  for  his  breath  is  a  whirlwind,  and  his  eye  is  an 

ogre  of  flame  ! 


124  OCCASIONAL. 

And  his  feet  they  are  shod  with  the  lightnings,  which  only  a 
master  can  tame. 

Rings  the  bell !  like  a  flash  we  are  speeding,  as  it  were,  on  the 

wings  of  a  dream  ! 
Rings  the  bell !  and  the  earth  hath  been  circled  by  the  genius 

of  progress  and  steam  ! 
Rings  the  bell  !  and  the  coach  hath  departed  on  the  tide  of 

returnless  years, 
And  the  echoing  horn  of  its  driver  cometh  never  again  to    our 

ears. 

The  brooks  that  for  ages  have  wasted  their  strength  as  they 

glided  along, 
In  and  out  through  the  deeps  and  the  shallows,  to  the  notes  of 

their  rhythmical  song, 
At  the  last  have  awoke  to  their  mission,  as  their  hands  they 

have  placed  to  the  wheel, 
And  the  echoes  have  mingled  their  music  with  the  clash  of  the 

hammer  and  steel. 

The  castle  hath   sprung  to  the  hillside,  at  the   touch  of  the 

genii  of  gold, 
And  the  coi.tage  hath  grown  in  its  shadows,  like  the  vine  of 

the  prophet  of  old: 
And  the  churches  that  rise  on  the  summit — with  the  story  of 

mercy  on  high, 
And  their  back  on  the  ancient  traditions — point  an  easier  road 

to  the  sky. 

The  old  goeth  into  new  bottles,  but  never  the  new  in  the  old 

For  the  world  groweth  wiser  and  better,  for  aye,  as  the  ages 
unfold — 

E'en  the  day  is  at  hand  when  the  "doxies"  shall  hamper  no- 
more  or  deceive — 

When  shall  men  all  believe  as  they  worship,  and  worship 
because  they  believe. 


OCCASIONAL.  125 

The  school-house  of  old,  with  its  benches  of  slabs  where  the 

fathers  were  taught, 
Hath  grown  in  the  soil  of  the  present  to  a  temple  of  science 

and  thought; 
And  the  knight  of  the  rod  and  the  ferrule,  for  his  stipend  that 

"boarded  around," 
Giveth  place  to  the  high-toned  professor,  with  a  head  full  of 

matters  profound. 

We  miss  the   old  hat  in  the  window,  and  the  writing  bench 

whereon  our  name 
Was  cut  with  some  hieroglyphics,  that  had  put  an  Egyptian  to 

shame; 
And  the  "  box  stove  "  so  guileless  of  blacking,  and  the  desk  in 

the  midst  of  the  floor, 
Where  the  contraband  top  and  the  whistles,  were  shelved  by 

the  dozen  or  more. 

Through  the  door  comes  a  fair  little  maiden,  that  once  in  my 

boyhood  I  knew, 
And  I  stop  in  my  story  to  wonder,  if  ever  that   story  came 

true, 
That  the  Gypsy  Queen  told  her  one  morning,  of  a  tall  man  to 

come  from  the  sea, 
With  a  ship  and  a  cargo  of  treasures,  for  the  bride  that  she 

sometime  would  be. 

I  think  that  she  half  did  believe  it,  for  the  thought  it  is  child 

of  the  wish: 
And  how  did  she  know  but  the  ocean  for  her  had  that  kind 

of  a  fish  ? 
Dear  little,  brown  little  maiden, — wherever  thy  lot  hath  been 

cast — 
If  thy  "ship"   hath   come  in  yet,   I  know  not;   if   nay  it  will 

come  at  the  last, 

For  the  "  tall  man,"  no  doubt,  was  the  angel  that   leads  from 

mortality  forth: 
And  the  sea,  was  it  not  forever?  and  the  "  treasure  "-—'twas 

not  of  the  earth. 


I26  OCCASIONAL. 

In  the  old  time,  'twas  "three  months  of  schooling"  and  nine 
to  "  gymnast  "  with  the  hoe, 

Or  the  axe,  or  the  flail,  or  the  harrow— to  plant  or  to  reap,  or 
to  mow. 

But  in  these  days  our  boys  go  to  college  as  soon  as  home  train- 
ing will  do, 

To  study  for — "  batter  "  or  "pitcher,"  or  to  paddle  some  col- 
lege canoe. 

In  the  old  time  the  girls  with  their  mothers  learned  to  spin, 
and  to  weave  and  to  sew, 

Or  to  send  from  the  throne  of  the  kitchen  the  roast  and  the 
savory  stew; 

But  in  these  days  they,  too,  go  to  college — to  Vassar,  or  Har- 
vard, may  be — 

To  study  whatever  comes  handy,  and  to  take,  more  or  less,  of 
"degree;" 

To  talk  of   the  world   of   dynamics,  or   the   latest   Darwinian 

doubt, 
Or — their  word   for  't — to  be  "dying"  or  "crazy"  to  know 

how  that  story  "came  out." 
If  our  boys  know  too  little  of  labor,  it  is  theirs  in  the  future  to 

learn 
That  the  seeds  that  are  sown  without  struggle  bring  seldom 

the  noblest  return. 

And  our  girls  who  may  dream  of  a  "mission"  outside  in  the 
world  of  to-day, 

May  find  that  their  mothers,  for  ages,  have  not  traveled  far 
out  of  the  way, 

In  finding  their  "  sphere  "  at  the  fireside,  in  the  sweets  and 
delights  of  the  home, 

Leaving  man  with  his  ruggeder  nature,  in  the  world  of  ambi- 
tion to  roam. 

Some  mistakes  there  may  be  to  be  righted.  The  pendulum 
swings  to  extremes; 


OCCASIONAL,.  127 

The  dew-drop  that  forms  in  the  darkness,  a  gem  in  the  orient 

gleams; 
So,  by  and  by,  when   we  are  older,  and  our  "notions"  have 

softened  away, 
Our  daughters  shall  shine  as  the  dew-drop  in  the  light  of  the 

orient  day, 

That  cannot  be  long  in  the  coming; — indeed,  there  be  some 

that  I  know 
Already  like  blossoms  of  beauty,  that  sweeten  wherever  they 

go,— 
That  have  come,  as  it  were,  on  a  "  mission  "  to  man  from  some 

happier  realm; 
His  equal !  yea,  more  than  his  equal,  the  angel  that  holdeth 

the  helm; 

Pure  souls,  with  whom  life  is  no  bubble,  to  sparkle  and  break 
into  tears; 

Brave  hearts  that  with  face  to  the  sunlight  move  on  through 
the  vale  of  the  years. 

For  such,  O  my  brother,  be  thankful,  the  gem  is  more  precious 
if  rare; 

But  the  poorest  of  all  in  creation  is  the  soul  that  has  "noth- 
ing to  wear." 

Let  our  children  be  taught  that  an  idler  is  debtor  to  air  and 
to  soil; 

That  the  glory  of  man  or  of  woman  is  the  hand  that  is  hard- 
ened by  toil; 

And  that  who,  to  his  face  in  the  waters,  throws  the  crust  of 
his  worshipping  bread, 

Findeth  never  a  current  returning;  and  the  shadow,  it  never  is 
fed. 

Though  the  river  a  moment  flow  backward,  with  forces  up- 
gathered  and  strong, 

O'er  the  rocks  in  its  way  that  impeded,  it  goes  with  a  shout 
and  a  song  ! 


128  OCCASIONAL. 

And  so  in  the  stream  in  the  future,  I  see  for  our  beautiful  hills 
A  history  bright  with  a  glory,  that  the  soul  of  the  patriot  fills. 

For  the  virtues  of  old  are  not  buried;  the  puritan  liveth  to-day, 

But  the  rock  that  impeded  his  nature  by  the  stream  hath  been 
fretted  away, 

Till  the  current  flows  broader  and  deeper,  and  the  growth  of 
the  reed  and  the  fern 

Giveth  place  on  our  banks  to  the  blossom, — prophetic  of  fruit 
in  its  turn — 

That  shall  grow  to  millennial  graces,  in  the  dawn  of  some  hap- 
pier morn. 


fat 


HE  STOOD  AT  THE   BAR. 


i. 


P 


E  stood  at  the  bar,  with  a  lofty  head; 
"  Rum  in  mine,"  were  words  he  said. 


Few  his  years,  and  his  face  was  fair, 
But  he  tossed  the  glass  with  a  jaunty  air, 

Which  plainly  said,  to  the  thirsty  crew, 
"  Used  to  this  sort  of  thing,  you  know." 

"  Rum  in  mine,  is  the  word,'   said  he, 
"  Comrades  what  shall  the  tipple  be  ?  " 

Up  from  the  corners  where  they  sat, 
Snoozing  under  the  battered  hat, 

Shuffled  the  loafers  at  the  call- 
Shuffled  the  bummers,  one  and  all, 

With  bleary  eye  and  a  drunken  "  hie!  " 
And  a  "  damme,  my  boy,  but  you're  a  brick!  " 

A  bowl  of  punch,  or  a  "  whiskey  skin," 
A  brandy  smash  or  a  glass  of  gin, 

Was  freely  passed,  and  they  clinked  the  glass 
In  a  wild  carouse,  till  the  morn,  alas! 

Revealed  a  corpse — a  fiendish  band, 
A  trembling  youth,  and  a  bloody  hand. 


130  TEMPERANCE. 

And  the  click  was  heard  of  the  jailor's  lock, 
As  they  led  him  in  from  the  prisoner's  dock. 

II. 

He  stood  at  the  bar  with  a  bended  head; 
"  Guilty,  my  lord,"  were  the  words  he  said. 

Few  his  years,  and  his  face  was  fair, 

But  he  swung  like  a  man,  in  the  morning  air,. 

And  he  plainly  said,  as  he  stretched  the  line, 
"  Rum  was  the  tipple,  rum  in  mine." 

He  stood  at  the  bar  of  the  last  appeal, 
But  the  judgment  there  I  may  not  reveal: 

I  only  know  that  the  Judge  of  all 

Is  never  at  loss  where  the  blow  should  fall, 

And  it  may  be  true  that  the  tempter  there 
Hath  far  the  heaviest  load  to  bear. 


THE  RED  LIGHT  DECOY. 

HE  night  was  wild.     On  a  stormy  lee 
A  light  flashed  out,  o'er  a  breaking  sea. 

Hour  after  hour,  the  ship  had  sped 

On  aimless  wings,  through  the  darkness  dread, 

With  naught  behind  but  an  angry  wave, 
And  naught  before  but  a  threatened  grave. 

An  hundred  hearts  sank  low  with  fear, 

As  they  thought  of  home,  and  its  happy  cheer;— 

And  the  prayer  went  up  through  the  shrouded  night 
To  the  Throne  above,  for  a  guiding  light. 


TEMPERANCE.  13! 

Land  !  ho  the  watchman  cried — land  ho  ! — 
"The  harbor  light  by  its  flash  I  know  !" 

And  the  captain's  voice  rang  high  and  loud 
From  yard  to  yard,  and  from  shroud  to  shroud. 

"  Port  helm  !  port  helm  !  taut  haul  your  sails  ! 
And  we'll  ride  into  port  on  the  stoutest  gales." 

And  now  the  hearts  that  had  sank  with  fear, 
Beat  high  with  hope,  at  the  words  of  cheer, — 

And  again  was  pressed  the  friendly  hand, 
And  the  loving  lip,  on  the  waiting  strand. 

The  light  went  out: — 'twas  a  foul  decoy — 
And  the  ship  was  caught  like  a  childish  toy 

In  the  mad  lee  tide,  and  was  dashed  ashore 

1  Mid  the  tempest's  crash,  and  the  breakers'  roar. 

But  hark  !  from  the  shore  a  gun  speaks  out, — 
A  line  is  sent,  and  is  heard  the  shout, — 

"  The  life  boat,  men  !  to  the  wreck,  ye  brave  ! 
There  are  lives  to  save  from  the  hungry  wave." 

And  the  periled  crew,  by  the  shoreman's  arm 
Are  saved  at  last,  from  the  raging  storm; — 

For  none  there  were,  from  that  open  grave, 
To  spurn  the  hand  that  was  reached  to  save. 

II. 

There's  a  beacon  set  on  a  village  hill 
With  a  lurid  flame,  like  the  flame  of  hell ! 

And  it  brings  a  blush  to  the  cheek  of  night, 
As  it  flames  abroad,  from  the  village  height ! 

Up  and  down  on  its  post  genteel 

Run  spiral  lines — like  a  serpent's  trail — 


I  3  2  TEMPERANCE. 

Or  the  mazy  track  of  a  devotee 

At  the  shrine  of  drink,  on  a  midnight  spree. 

Fathers,  this  light  is  a  foul  decoy  ! 
Mothers,  'twould  ruin  your  darling  boy  !— 

Paint  his  cheeks  with  its  fiery  flame, — 
Spiral  his  soul  with  its  stripe  of  shame  ! — 

Palsy  his  limbs  and  taint  his  breath; — 
Crush  out  his  manhood,  and  give  him  death  ! 

A  thousand  wrecks  are  upon  its  shore, 

And  it  asks  that  you  give  it  a  thousand  more. 

WTho  volunteers  ?  Is  it  you,  friend  ?  or  you  ? 
That  will  lead  the  march  of  this  pit-bound  crewr 

Into  the  depths  of  the  death-dark  streams, 
Back  of  the  place  where  the  red  light  gleams  ? 

III. 

Lo  !  a  gibbet  built  in  a  Christian  land  ! 
And  a  hangman  there  with  a  rope  in  hand  ! 

A  victim  is  wanted  !     The  doors  of  a  tomb 

Are  wide  for  a  wretch  from  the  scaffold's  doom  ! 

Who  volunteers  ?  is  it  you,  my  boy — 
You,  now  the  center  of  hope  and  joy  ? 

You,  oh  youth,  with  a  step  like  a  king,— 
Yours  shall  it  be  from  that  beam  to  swing? 

Who  knows?  art  sure  that  a  toil-worn  wife 

WTaits  not — somewhere — for  your  rum-thrust  knife  ?• 

Art  sure  that  a  child  of  your  love,  for  bread, 
May  not  starve  that  th'  red  light  flame  be  fed  ? 

There  are  souls  like  yours  to  be  steeped  in  crime, 
And  scaffold  steps  that  their  feet  must  climb, 


TKMPERANCE  133 

With  waiting  crowds,  whose  wild,  brute  cheers 
Ring  loud  and  high  !    Boys,  who  volunteers? 

Hand  up  your  names  !     Sixty  thousand  brave 
Is  th'  quota  each  year  for  the  drunkard's  grave  ! 

Every  name  counts  one;  give  us  yours,  my  lad  ! 
Though  the  angels  weep,  and  the  pit  is  glad. 

What  shall  forbid — while  yet  shall  stand 
These  red  false  lights  in  a  Christian  land  ? 

Stronger  art  thou,  my  friend,  to  hold 
Thy  soul  unstained  than  the  hosts  of  old, 

That  died  as  the  fool,  in  the  pit  of  woe  ? 
Be  not  deceived  !     Life's  paths  are  few 

Where  danger  lurks  not;  where  th'  rum  blood  hound 
On  the  track  of  his  prey,  is  not  close  to  th'  ground. 

IV. 

The  "  need  of  the  hour"  is  a  grip  that's  bold 
On  the  throat  of  th'  wrong  !     To-day,  as  of  old, 
Our  nettle  is  grasped  by  too  tender  a  hold. 

'Neath  opinion's  heel  is  the  serpent's  head  ! 
Shall  we  hold  it  down  with  unyielding  tread, 
Oh,  men  of  to-day,  till  the  thing  is  dead  ? 

A  battle  gained  is  no  victory  won 

If  we  hold  not  th'  field:   Wrong,  under  the  sun, 

Hath  a  thousand  lives  where  the  Right  hath  one. 

It  is  pluck  that  we  want ! — that  conscious  might 
That  can  speak  the  word  that  we  know  is  right; 

Not  counting  cost,  that  with  fearless  tongue, 
Shall  right  names  call  what  we  know  is  wrong. 

Manhood  we  want — unflinching — grand, 

That  can  crush  the  fiend  that  despoils  our  land, — 


'34 


TEMPERANCE. 


Nor  stop  to  inquire  if  a  rumseller's  pew 
Be  vacant  to-day — or  we  tap  not  his  shoe. 

Let  us  stand  for  the  right ! — though  we  die  in  neglect, 
We're  richer  than  kings,  in  our  self  respect ! 

There   is  something   of   wealth,   that   the    "street"  does   not 

quote: — 
There   are   stocks,  there   are    bonds,  that    may   help   not   our 

note, — 

Yet,  I  tell  you,  my  friends,  that  of  value  untold, 
In  the  bank  of  the  heart,  they  are  better  than  gold. 

Life  is  not  a  bubble,  to  break  on  the  shore, 
Leaving  only  the  space  where  it  sparkled  before; — 

Eternal,  and  real  !   Enough  for  our  hands 
It  fmdeth  of  labor,  while  mercy  demands 

Wise  heads  and  true  hearts  and  strong  arms  to  destroy, 
The  fiend  of  all  fiends,  with  its  red  light  decoy. 

Hark  !  a  signal  at  sea  !     There's  a  ship  on  the  shore  ! 
To  the  wreck,  boys,  the  wreck  !  let  us  man  every  oar, 
And  we'll  bring  in  the  sin-foundered  perishing  crew, 
And  bind  them  to  Hope  with  our  ribbons  of  blue. 

To  the  wreck,  boys,  the  wreck  !  though  tempests  may  howl, 
And  over  the  rocks  may  the  mad  billows  roll; 
Where  the  red  beacon  flameth,  we'll  pick  up  a  crew, 
And  we'll  bind  them  to  Faith,  with  our  ribbons  of  blue. 

To  the  wreck,  boys,  the  wreck  !  though  pirates  abound, 
On  the  shores,  in  the  caves,  and  the  darkness  around; 
By  His  arm  that  is  strong,  we  will  rescue  the  crew, 
And  we'll  bind  them  to  Love  with  our  ribbons  of  blue. 

Then  happy,  indeed,  when  the  moment  shall  come, — 
That  the  Master  shall  call  the  harvesters  home, 
If  each  be  adjudged — as  his  own  to  be  claimed — 
One  wreck  from  the  shore  where  the  red  light  gleamed. 


TKMPK  RANCH.  135 

THE   HEATHEN  AT  OUR   DOOR. 


PARK  !  ye  toilers  in   the  vineyard,  gallant   soldiers  of   the 
Lord, 
For   the    "coral   strands"   of   India   that  have  buckled  on  the 

sword, 

For  the  saving  of  the  nations;  know  ye  not  that  here  at  home 
Are  the  worse  than   "  heathen, "   bending  to  the  idols  that  -are 
dumb  ? 

With  our  Moses  on  the  mountain,  cometh  Aaron  with  his  staff, 
And  the  fires  of  human  folly  turneth  out  the  golden  calf; 
And  the  plague  is  on  the  people,  even  as  it  was  of  old, 
When   Jehovah   spoke  his  vengeance   on   the   worshippers  of 
gold. 

There's  a  voice  as  'twere  of  battle,  of  the  fiends  that  over- 
come ; 

And  with  fiery  indignation  at  the  mastery  of  rum 

Comes  the  prophet  from  the  mountain,  crying,  "  Who  is  for  the 
Lord  !  " 

With  the  gallant  sons  of  Levi,  let  him  buckle  on  his  sword. 

And  beneath  the  scowling  arches  of  the  heathen  temple  low, 
Let  him  wrest  the  naked  victim  from  the  clutches  of  the  foe; 
And  with  pure  and  holy  banners,  as  the  outward  portals 

swing, 
Let   him   lead   the   march  of  triumph   to  the  kingdom  of  the 

King. 

In  the  valley  of  Gehenna,  even  at  the  city  gates, 
Lo!  a  worm  that  never  dieth,  for  the  evil  doer  waits; 
And  a  fire  that  never  quenches  shineth  steady  from  within, 
Where  the  red  light  beacon  pilots  to  the  furnaces  of  sin! 

Nay,  we  need  not  go  to  India  for  a  sacrificial  fire, 
While  the  Christian  wife  or  widow  is  forever  on  the  pyre; 


136  TEMPERANCE. 

Nor  for  mission  works  of  mercy  to  the  plains  of  Hiridostan, 
While  the  Juggernaut  of  Whiskey  crushes  worse  than  heathen 
men. 

If  the  heathen  buildeth  temples  in  the  semblances  of  men, 
So    the    Christian    buildeth     temples    with      their    semblances 

within; 

And  the  priest  before  the  idol,  and  priest  within  the  shrine, 
Each,  maybe,  hath  equal  favor  in  the  sight  of  th*e  Divine, 
For,    who    sinneth    against    knowledge,    wheresoever    be    the 

clime, 
Must  be  judged  the  real  sinner,  since  the  motive  is  the  crime. 

Shorten,    then,    the    line    of    vision  !    level    down    the    object 

glass! 

Ye  are  firing  over  armies  that  are  lurking  in  the  grass; 
By  their  serpentine  approaches,  that  are  at  your  very  feet, 
Underneath  the  city's  shadow,  and  are  pounding  at  the  gate! 

Shorten  up  the  line  of  battle!     If  a  dollar  ye  would  score 
For   the    "  heathen,"    better    write    it   on   a    neighbor's  cellar 

door, 
Than   to   send   a   hat   and    feathers,    or    some    beads    upon  a 

string, 
For  the  full  completed  toilette  of  some  Fejee  Island  king. 

Closer  draw  the   line   of    action!    'mong    the   whiskey-ridden 

poor, 
Where  the  hunger  fiend    is    gnawing   within    hailing   of    our 

door; 

Though  we  labor  from  the  rising  to  the  setting  of  the  sun, 
Life  is  not  so  long,  my  brother,  that  the  work  will  all  be  done. 

Though     it    figure    not    so    grandly     in     the     ''Herald"     or 

"  Gazette," 

As  so  many  dollars,  maybe,  for  this  mission,  or  for  that, 
Yet   our  gifts   will   all   be   numbered   and   will   to  His  notice 

come, 
Who  has  taught  us  a  beginning  of  our  charity  at  home. 


TEMPERANCE. 


137 


By  the  light,  then,  of  the  Gospel,  let  it  evermore  be  seen, 
That  the  inside  of  our  "platter"  of  Christianity  be  clean; 
Then  to  whiskey-hating  Brahma,  or  Mahomet,  we  may  say, 
Come  you  hither,  oh,  my  brother,  for  behold!  a  better  way. 


AFTER  THE    DEBAUCH 


'^JJSLEEP  by  the  wayside  !  The  night  hath  been  long, 
/A     Vile  was  the  revel — yet  viler  the  song; 
Do  not  disturb  her, — poor  waif  of  the  dust: — 
Christ!  that  her  sleep  were  the  sleep  of  the  just! 

Oh,  it  is  sorrowful!  she  is  not  old, — 
Yet,  is  the  silver  usurping  the  gold! 
Where,  in  their  purity,  lillies  have  shone, 
Sin,  with  its  shadow,  hath  marked  her  its  own. 

Haste  not  the  waking: — too  soon  it  will  come; 

Hist!  she  is  dreaming  of  childhood  and  home; 

The  woods  and  the  meadows, — of  brooklets  and  flowers, 

Ghosts  of  the  vanished,  but  innocent  hours. 

"Mother,"  she  whispers.   Oh,  God!  that  the  name 
Might  burn  on  the  lips  of  the  daughter  of  shame 
Till  the  soul,  that  is  shrined  in  its  temple  within, 
Should  purge  to  its  depths  from  the  burthen  of  sin. 

Asleep  by  the  wayside!  Thou  soul  of  the  world, 
Take  up  the  stone,  if  thou  wilt,  to  be  hurled; — 
Yet,  under  the  law  of  the  pure  Nazarene,— 
First  let  the  hand  that  would  hurl  it  be  clean. 

Asleep  by  the  wayside!   Oh  daughter  of  shame, 
Who  but  thy  Maker  shall  measure  the  blame  ? 
Soiled  and  bestained  by  the  shadows  of  night, 
Once  were  thy  garments  as  pure  as  the  light! 


58  TEMPERANCE. 

Proud  of  thine  honor,  and  proud  of  thy  birth; 
Pride  of  the  hearts  that  encircled  the  hearth; 
Wealth  was  thy  portion,  and  beauty  was  thine, 
Fashion  bent  to  thee,  and  thought  thee  divine. 

Prone,  by  the  wayside,  in  squalor  and  dirt; 
Fashion  sweeps  by,  with  a  gathering  skirt, 
And  a  shudder  of  fright— lest  it  see,  by  the  way, 
Itself,  but  too  plain,  in  this  mirror  of  clay. 

The  roses  are  fading;  the  lilies  have  come; 
The  eyelids  are  sealing;  the  thin  lips  are  dumb; 
Only  one  word — 'tis  of  him  that  betrayed, 
And  dead  by  the  wayside  the  harlot  is  laid. 

Dead  by  the  wayside!  the  night  will  be  long, 
Wake  her  ye  cannot  with  revel  or  song; 
Bear  a  hand  tenderly — take  her  away; 
None  but  her  Maker  shall  judge  her  to-day. 

Set  the  white  headstone;  yet,  spare  her  the  name; 
Chisel  no  word  that  shall  tell  of  the  shame! 
Finger  of  charity,  write  on  the  stone 
"  She  was  but  too  human," — and  leave  her  alone. 
****** 

Despised  by  the  wayside  the  harlot  is  found, 
While  the  maker  of  harlots  is  feted  and  crowned; 
Thus  ever  it  is  that  our  lashes  are  swung 
At  the  back  of  the  victim,  and  not  at  the  wrong. 


I  K.MFERANCE.  139 

SHALL  WE  LICENSE  IT? 


LICENSE  it?  Yes!  when  the  torch  and  the  flame, 
On  the  wings  of  the  statute  are  sent  through  the  lancl!- 
When  the  den  of  the  thief,  and  the  brothel  of  shame, 
Are  down  in  the  deed  that  is  under  our  hand. 

License  ?  Oh  yes,  with  permission  to  kill 

With  pistol  or  bludgeon,  as  well  as  by  gin! 

Aye  more,  if  you  please,  e'en  the  demon  of  hell 
Go  charter,  by  statute,  to  peddle  his  sin. 

License  it?  "Yes!  "  say  the  men  of  our  time: — 

"  It  will  help  out  our  tax — our  account  at  the  bank." 

Fools!  know  you  not  that  condoning  a  crime,- 

Putteth  him  that  condones  in  the  criminal  rank  ? 

Will  it  lesson  your  taxes  to  nurture  the  knaves 

That  live  but  to  rob,  and  to  burn,  and  destroy  ? 

Can  your  "license"  offset  for  the  filling  of  graves — 
For  the  rape  of  the  heart  of  some  darlingest  joy  ? 

License  it  ?  No!  cries  the  wretch  in  the  grip 

Of  the  terrible  noose  of  the  tightening  rope! 

License  it?  No!  cries  the  murderer  "Chip" 

From  the  depths  of  a  cell  that  hath  never  a  hope. 

License  it?  No!   shout  the  children  of  want: — 

No!  say  the  wisest,  the  noblest  and  best; 
Prohibit!    Prohibit!   nor  say  that  you  "can't:  " 

Crush  out  the  viper  and  break  up  his  nest. 

Oh,  for  the  love  that  we  bear  to  our  own— 

The  God  that  hath  made  us: — our  country  and  kin; 

Let  us  stand  for -the  right — though  we  stand  up  alone — 
That  our  skirts  may  be  free  from  the  taint  of  the  sin. 

Men!   it  is  ours  but  to  stir  up  the  sod; — 

Ours  that  the  seed  shall  be  carefully  sown; 

If  the  harvest  delay,  lo!  the  Master  is  God! 

Shall  He  not  then  reap  as  He  will  of  his  own  ? 


140  TEMPERANCE. 

ONLY. 


IT  was  "only"  a  match,  a  splinter  of  pine; — 
Harmless  enough  in  itself  if  you  please; — 
A  handful  of  shavings  cut  thinly  and  fine, 

But  where  could  be  harm  in  such  trifles  as  these  ? 

It  was  "only  "  a  drunkard  that  lighted  the  match 
And  the  shavings,  that  kindled  a  city  to  flame! 

It  was  "  only  "  a  bolt,  but  it  shackled  the  wretch, 
And  held  him  for  life  to  a  prison  of  shame. 

Ijt  was  "  only  "  a  leaf  in  the  stream,  as  it  flowed, 

That  turned  it  from  peace  to  the  turbulent  way; 

It  was  "  only  "  a  step  at  the  fork  of  the  road, 

And  youth  was  a  wreck  in  the  darkness  astray. 

It  was  "  only  "  a  drop  from  the  lethean  spring. 

That  sparkled  and  gleamed  in  the  depths  of  the  bowl: 

A  sweet  little  drop,  but  it  covered  a  sting, 

That  pierced  to  the  depths  of  an  innocent  soul. 

A  drop,  boys,  a  drop!  and  a  seed  hath  been  sown — 

Like  the  upas,  ere  long  that  shall  spring  upon  high! 

A  drop,  boys,  a  drop!  and  the  curse  is  thine  own; 
Drink,  drink,  if  you  will,  till  the  goblet  be  dry. 

But  charge  not  the  folly  to  God  or  to  "  fate!  " 

.  No  child  ever  took  as  a  gift  from  His  hand,— 
The  loving  All  Father — this  besom  of  hate, 

That  burns  and  consumes  and  destroys  in  the  land! 

Shake  up  the  glass,  till  the  demon  within, 

Is  white  with  the  venom  that  comes  to  the  top; 

A  drop,  boy,  a  drop!  it  will  do  to  begin;— 

But  remember,  the  gallows  hath  also  a  "drop." 


A   REVERIE. 


I  AM   walking  'mid  the  darkness,  overshadowed 
By  the  gloom; 
Close  beside  me  is  the  cradle — just  before  me 

Is  the  tomb; 
Here  and  there  some  favorite  phantom,  leading 

With  alluring  ray; 
Here  and  there  some  idol,  broken,  lying 

Prone  upon  the  way. 
Evermore  the  human  standeth  at  the 

Temple's  inner  shrine, 
Searching,  'mid  the  dust  and  darkness, 

For  some  trace  of  the  divine. 

What  am  I,  and  whence  my  coming  ?     Who  shall 

Tell  me  ?     Like  a  God 
I  command  the  winged  lightnings — yet  am 

Counted  but  a  clod! 
I  can  hold  the  whirling  planets,  as  it  were, 

Within  my  hand; 
Give  them  weight  and  law  and  measure,— 

E'en  their  substance  understand! 
I  can  trace  the  mighty  orbits  of  the  comets 

As  they  pass; 
But  I  cannot  tell  the  secrets  of  a  tiny 

Blade  of  grass! 


142  MUSINC1S. 

I  can  bind  the  earth  in  irons!  and  upon 

The  wings  of  steam 
I  can  send  the  mighty  forests  whirling  past 

Me  like  a  dream! 
On  the  cable  tongue  of  ocean  I  can 

Breathe  the  message  forth, 
And  a  fleeting  hour  hath  told  it  to  the 

Nations  of  the  earth! 
E'en  at  my  command  the  thunder  writes 

Its  name  upon  a  scroll, 
Yet,  appalled  I  stand,  and  speechless  fore 

This  myst'ry  of  the  soul! 

Thus,  I  walk  amid  the  darkness,  hung'ring, 

Thirsting  for  the  light, 
Though  the  sages  tell  me  plainly,  "never 

More  shall  end  the  night!" 
That,  "  the  soul  goes  sweeping  downward  on 

The  train  of  mortal  breath, 
Till  at  last  it  plunges  madly  in  the 

Deep  abyss  of  death!  " 
"  Man  is  but  " — so  say  the  sages — "  atoms 

Grouping" — so  and  so; 
Only  this — no  more  forever.     Fellow 

Traveller,  is  it  true  ? 

Far  above  the  clouds  and  darkness,  lo! 

The  azure  depths  expand, 
Till  I  stand  in  conscious  selfhood  close 

Upon  some  border  land; 
Where  the  pulse  of  the  Eternal  throbs 

Upon  the  pregnant  air! 
And  I  hear  the  sounding  anthems  that 

Forever  echo  there. 

What  am  I  ?  again  I  question — clod  of 

Earth  ?  or  spark  divine  ? 

Death,  art  thou  indeed  my  master  ?-  or  at 
Last  shall  I  be  thine  ? 


MUSINGS.  143 

Hark!  from  o'er  the  mystic  border,  "  I  am 

God!  "  thus  answers  He, 
"And  I'the  Life!  "  ye  are  my  children;   I  in 

You  and  you  in  Me!  " 

Still,  I  walk  amid  the  darkness,  yet  by 

Faith  I  boldly  tread, 
Fearing  nothing,  asking  nothing,  so  that 

I  am  safely  led. 
Thou,  "the  Life?"     Oh,  loving  Father,  then  I 

Cling  to  Thee  alone!     ' 
And  I'll  trust  death's  lifting  shadows 

To  reveal  the  great  unknown. 


MY  CREED. 


IF  you  call  me  unbeliever  and  proclaim  me  in  the  wrong, 
I  may  grant  you,  yet  shall  tell  you,  that  my  unbelieving 
song, 

Only  asks  the  right  to  reason  of  the  soundness  of  the  bark, 
And  the  knowledge  of  its  pilot,  ere  we  sail  into  the  dark. 

I  shall  answer,  I  shall  tell  you,  unbeliever  if  I  am, 
That  I  only  seek  to  battle  with  the  shoddy  and  the  sham; 
If  I  tear  the  gaudy  roses  from  the  harlot's  cheek  away, 
It  is  that  the  unsuspecting  nevermore  be  led  astray. 

I  shall  answer,  and   shall   tell   you    that   there   yet   may  be  a 

doubt, 

If  I'm  quite  the  unbeliever  that  you  fain  would  make  me  out: — 
For  I  hold  to  all  that's  noble,  all  that's  gentle,  all  that's  good; — 
God  and  angels — Love's  evangels,  and  one  common  brother- 
hood. 

I  believe  in  gentle  living, — tender  dealing  with  our  kind, — 
Holding  all  men  in  communion  though  to  idols  they  be  joined; 


144  MUSINGS. 

That,  until  shall  lift  the   shadows  that   enshroud  our   mortal 

eyes, 
We  should  never  judge  the  motive  that  behind  the  action  lies. 

I  believe  in  earnest  labor  for  salvation:   faith  alone 
Only  sends  us  empty  handed  up  before  the  harvest  throne- 
Like  a  horde  of  beggars  crying — "  sheaves  we  have  not,  Lord, 

but  see  ! 
In   our   hands   are   our   credentials,   showing   how  we   trusted 

thee  !'" 

Better,  far,  with  manly  spirit,  take  one  single  grain  of  wheat — 
Gained  by  earnest,  honest  labor — and  go  lay  it  at  His  feet, 
Saying,  Lord,  it  is  as  nothing  and  we  would  that  it  were  more — 
Yet  the  field — but,  Lord,  thou  knowest  of  the  harvest  that  it 
bore. 

I  believe — and  who  gainsays  it  ? — that  one  Father  guideth  all, 
So  that  whomsoe'er  he  holdeth,  in  the  end  can  never  fall: 
For  His  hand  were  but  as  human  could  it  save  not  if  it  would; 
And  below,  indeed,  the  human  if  it  would  not  if  it  could. 

Adam's    sin — the    blood    atonement: — endless   fire    for    sinful 

man  ! 
On  the  throne  a  God  of  vengeance — take  them,  brother,  if  you 

can: 

But  for  me — and  for  me  only — I  must  raise  the  candid  doubt, 
Whether  here  and  there  a  dogma  must  not  soon  be  stepping 

out? 

For  the  ages  level  upward,  step  by  step,  and  stage  by  stage: — 
Each  capstone  a  new  departure  for  some  higher  building  age  ! 
Vet  however  high  uprising,  still  the  temple  cannot  stand, 
If  it  be  not  firmly  anchored  to  the  rock  beneath  the  sand. 

Lo  !   the    midnight    tempest    cometh   and    the    builders,    with 

alarm, 

Hear  the  voice  of  many  waters — see  the  arrows  of  the  storm. 
Yet,    unharmed,  the   fabric    standeth  in  the    purple    morning 

grand, 
If  unto  the  rock  of  ages  it  be  anchored  'neath  the  sand. 


MUS1NC1S.  145 

So  I  answer,  and  I  tell  you,  that  there  yet  may  be  a  doubt 

If  I'm  quite  the  "unbeliever"  that  you  fain  would  make  me 
out: — 

Since  I  hold  to  all  that's  gentle,  all  that's  noble,  all  that's 
good ; — 

-God  and  angels, — Love's  Evangels,  and  one  common  brother- 
hood. 


YE  ARE  THE   REAPERS. 


NOW  hark  ye  in  hall  and  in  palace, 
And  hark  ye  the  cottage  within, 
To  the  voice  of  wild  mirth  o'er  the  chalice 
Of  revelry,  riot  and  sin. 

The  altars  of  friendship  are  broken, 

The  hearthstone  deserted  and  cold, 

And  the  last  sad  adieu  has  been  spoken 

To  friends  that  too  soon  have  grown  old. 

The  eye  of  proud  genius  is  blighted 

At  the  touch  of  the  wine  spirit's  breath, 

And  the  heart  which  affection  once  lighted 
Lies  cold  in  the  chamber  of  death. 

From  hearts  which  lie  wounded  and  bleeding, 
From  lips  that  are  pallid  with  grief, 

The  sad  voice  of  anguish  is  pleading 
With  heaven  for  speedy  relief. 

Now  hark  ye  who  dwell  in  the  valley, 
And  hark  ye  who  dwell  on  the  hill! 

From  this  darkness  and  bondage  to  rally, 
Ye  have  power,  if  ye  have  but  the  will. 

By  all,  then,  that's  holy  in  heaven— 
By  all  that  ye  cherish  on  earth— 


146  MUSINGS. 

Rest  not  till  the  spoiler  is  driven 
Forever  from  altar  and  hearth. 

Say  not  that  ye  "  are  not  the  keepers  " 
Of  those  who  would  riot  in  sin; 

They're  the  harvest  and  ye  are  the  reapers, 
Go  toil  till  ye've  gathered  it  in. 


UNDER  THE  SHADOW. 


i. 

WHO    knoweth   the   time   of  His  coming  to  close  up  the 
final  account  ? 
When  the  pitcher   shall  break  at  the  cistern,   and  the  waters 

shall  fail  at  the  fount  ? 
Come  forth    with     your    rods    of    divining,    oh  men   that    in 

magic  are  great, 

And  read  me  the  mystical  signet  that  gleams  on   the  finger  of 
fate. 

I  stand  at  the   graves   of    my  kinsmen,   with  bowed  and  with 

reverent'  head, 
And  I  ask  of  the  what  and  the  whither,  and  of  destiny,  where 

doth  it  lead  ? 
I    pray  to   the   skies   for  a  whisper  of  things  that  are  yet  to 

come, 
And  pleading  I  kneel  at  the  altar,  but  the  altar  and  skies  are 

dumb. 

I  turn  to  the  ages  for  wisdom,  and   question  their  wonderful 

faith, 
For  aught  that   shall  prove   to  my  reason,  that  death  can  be 

other  than  death. 
I  look,  and  from  out  of  the  mountain  of  glory,  with  tablet  in 

hand, 
Cometh  Moses,  with  only  the  promise  of  "  life  "  to  be  "long  in 

the  land!" 


MUSINGS.  147 

II. 

A  million  of  paths  lie  open  that  lead  to  the  covering  sod; 
But  who,    from  beyond,  are  returners,  to  tell  of   the  valleys 

trod  ? 
With  the  spade  and  the  shroud — like  the  billow  that  breaks  on 

the  sounding  shore, 
Hath  the  pulse  and  the  throb  of  our   living   been  silenced  for- 

evermore  ? 

In  moments  of  pious  devotion,   we  sit  ourselves  down  at  the 

feast 
And  partake  of  the  bread   of  the   altar,   at   the  hands  of  the 

chanting  priest; 

And  how  shall  a  flock  be  fattened,  we  ask,  upon  hills  unseen  ? 
Or  drink  of  but  fabled  waters  ?     And  what  do  the  shepherds 

mean  ? 

I   hear  of  a   "  loving   kindness  "    that   sendeth   the  frost  and 

snow, 
For  chilling  and  killing  the  roses,  while  leaving  the   weeds  to 

grow  ! 
And   they  say    that  from  out  of  the  heavens  is   ordered    the 

sparrows  fall, 
Though    I   read   that   the  falling  is  noted — simply  noted,  and 

that  is  all. 

It  may  be  that  our  hairs  are  numbered,  as  are  numbered    our 

earthly  years; 
But  the  one  may  be  whitened   with   sorrow,  as  the   other  may 

flow  with  tears, 
Because,  through  the  "  sin  of  the  fathers,"  some   statute    was 

broken  of  yore, — 
As  the  fruit  may  be  dropped   from   the   branches,   by  a  worm 

that  was  bred  at  the  core. 

III. 

Two  maidens  beloved   and  loving;  of  kindred  the  hope  and 
the  pride, 


148  MUSINGS. 

In  a  ship  that  was  called  the  "  Forever  "  went  -out  on  the  ebb- 
ing tide. 

Their  work  it  was  left  unfinished,  as  if  they  might  soon  be 
back; 

But,  alas!  for  the  ship  and  the  maidens  there  was  never  return- 
ing track! 

It  is  easy  to  talk  about  mercy,  and  say,  "  it  were  better  so;  " 
That  "God  hath  but  rescued  His  darlings  from  ills  of  the  earth 

below." 
But  when  hath  the  burial  ended,  and  the  neighbors  return  to 

their  own, 
And  we  sit  ourselves  down  in  the  shadows,  to  desolate  thoughts 

alone, — 

We   ask  if    it   standeth   to   reason   that  God   hath   so  puny  an 

arm 
That   He   cannot   protect,  as   He   willeth,  from    ills    that   may 

threaten  to  harm  ? 
If    we   send   out   a   child   on  a  journey,   we    say,   and  comes 

danger  about, 
We  crush  not  the  child,  but  the  evil,  if  our  arm  be  sufficiently 

stout. 

In   the   mystical  land   of  the   Indies,  with  their  idols  of  wood 

and  stone, 
That  hover  and  swarm  by  the  roadside,  and  never  the  truth  is 

known; 
What  wonder,  if  blindly  groping,  the  child  of  neglect  should 

fall  ? 
And  what,  with  the  light  upon  as,   if    our  falling  be  worst  of 

all? 

The  "  light  !  "     But   to   one   it  is  darkness — perhaps  from  the 

blinding  dust; 
To  another,  a  glimmer  of  faintness   through   the   glass  or  of 

hope  or  trust. 


MUSINGS.  149 

The  "light!  "     But  who  orders  the  shadows  that  shutteth  the 

glory  out  ? — 
That  bindeth   us  down  to  the  bondage  of  darkness,  and  fear, 

and  doubt  ? 

I  would  not  blaspheme;  yet   I   wonder   if  all   that  the  Infinite 

knew 
For  the  good  of  His  child,  and  to  bless  it,   He  spake  to  that 

barbarous  Jew  ? 
Was  there  never  a  truth  to  be  spoken,   too   profound   for  that 

primitive  day  ? 
To  the  heart   and  the  brain  of  the  present,  hath  the    Infinite 

nothing  to  say  ? 

IV. 

I  said,  for  the  ship  and  the  maidens,  there  was  never  returning 

track; 
But  I  spake  as  from   out  of  the  shadow  of  sorrow,  and  deep 

and  black! 
In  the  fact  of  a   world   beyond    us,    my   faith  has  been  sorely 

tried, 
While  of  that  which  was  round  about  me,  I  saw  but  the  darker 

side. 

It  may  be   that  I   doubted   wisely!     That  the  gates  from  the 

mortal  swing, 
At  the  last,   into  shadows  eternal,   where  death  is  forever  the 

king  ! 
But  what   if    a   world   of    the   living,   unseen, — as   in  days  of 

yore, — 
May   surround,  but   to   enter  and  bless   us,  if  only  the  open 

door  ! 

I  have  heard,  from  a  child,  the  story  of  angels  that  once  were 

sent 
On  a  mission  of  love,  and  of  mercy,  to  the  door  of  an  ancient 

tent; 


150  MUSINGS. 

If  a  fact  I  know  not,  or  if  fancy.     But  this  I  must  hold  to  be 

true, 
That  an  angel  may  come  to  the  Christian,  if  ever  one  came  to 

the  Jew. 

For,  when   was   that  highway   abandoned,   on   which   did  the 

charriot  roll, 
Which  bore  off  the  prophet,  and  brought  him,  again,  from  the 

land  of  soul, 
To  stand  on  the  mountain  of  glory,  with  Moses  and  Him  that 

was  slain  ? 
And   where  is  the  law  to  prohibit  or  hinder  his  coming  again  ? 

Though  we  may  not,  as  yet,  behold  it, — the  sea,  with  the  crest 

of  its  wave, 
Shall  batter  the   cliff  into   fragments,   that  bars  out  the  light 

from  the  grave; 
And  then  shall  we  know  that  our  "lost  "  ones  have  triumphed 

o'er  death  and  its  sting! 
And  again  shall  we  know,  as   we  knew  them,  in  the  kingdom 

where  dwelleth  the  king:. 


THE  UNKNOWN  DEAD. 


i. 

1SIT  within  my  chamber  wall; — 
The  evening  shadows  slowly  fall, 
And,  stretching  eastward,  to  my  door, 
Invade  at  last  my  chamber  floor. 

While  outward  gazing  to  the  sky, 
A  phantom  troop  goes  sweeping  by 
With  screaming  fife  and  rolling  drum, 
And  flashing  steel  and  waving  plume, 
While  from  the  shadows,  overhead, 
A  voice  proclaims,  "  The  unknown  dead. 


MUSINGS.  151 

'Tis  not  for  me  that  stood  aloof 
Beneath  my  well  protected  roof, 
To  judge  of  him  that,  leaving  all, 
Could  hasten  at  his  country's  call, 
To  peril,  with  heroic  zeal, 
His  own  best  good  for  common  weal  ! 

'Tis  not,  indeed,  for  me  to  weigh 
In  scales  of  this  our  later  day, 
An  impulse  that  could  dare  the  grave, 
To  break  the  shackle  of  a  slave  ! 

How  men  for  kith  or  kin  may  die; 
For  conscience  e'en  the  stake  defy; 
Or  can  the  blazing  cannon  face, 
For  triumph  of  his  clan  or  race; — 
In  measure,  this  I  understand; — 
And  yet,  to  lift  a  mailed  hand 
For  him  that  hath  no  other  friend  ! — 
To  stoop  and  kiss  misfortune's  child, 
Though  for  the  act  by  men  reviled  ! 
As  water  flows,  bequeathing  blood 
To  seal  the  bonds  of  brotherhood  !- — 
All  this,  in  wen,  is  more,  my  friend, 
Of  God,  than  I  can  comprehend. 

II. 

The  water  closes,  and  the  stone 

That  broke  the  surface,  quickly  gone, 

Leaves  naught  behind  to  track  or  trace 

Its  journey  or  its  resting  place. 

Like  rolling  stones  men  live,  or  stay, — 

By  constant  chafing  worn  away, 

Till  rounded  to  some  useless  form 

They  join  at  last  their  fellow  worm; 

The  future  asks,  "What  have  they  done?" 

And  writes  above  their  dust,  "  Unknown." 


152  MUSINCiS. 

But  these,  for  whom  I  plead  to-day, 
That  sleep  beside  the  traveled  way, 
That  slumber  on  the  battle  plain, 
Or  toss  beneath  the  troubled  main; 
That  rest  upon  some  mountain  grand, 
Or  the  swamps  of  Dixie  land, — 
Unmarked,  although,  by  memoried  stone, 
Undecked  by  flowers,  are  they  "  unknown  ?" 
Not  so,  indeed  !     Each  sunken  grave 
Holds  in  embrace,  who  died  to  save 
A  Nation  from  its  crowning  shame  ! 
We  have  the  deed — God  hath  the  name. 

Unknown  ?     Not  while  yon  starry  fold 
That  shines  to-day  in  blue  and  gold, 
Shall  lift,  as  now,  from  strand  to  strand, 
The  proudest  flag  on  sea  or  land  ! 

Unknown  ?     Not  while  poor  Afric  stands, 

Full  owner  of  his  swarthy  hands; 

Or  dusky  parents  dare  to  own 

The  offspring  that  is  all  their  own. 

Till  fredom's  light  shall  dim  and  fade. 

And  men  again  are  "chattels"  made; 

Till  human  wrongs  become  the  right, 

And  mental  darkness  glooms  the  light; 

Till  thorns  shall  spring  where  truth  may  tread, 

We'll  count  them  not  the  "  unknown  dead," 

But,  by  their  glorious  pathway  trod, 

We'll  know  them — as  we  know  our  God — 

Whose  faithful  march,  where  duty  led, 

Gave  to  our  land  its  nameless  dead. 

III. 

Across  the  dark  and  bloody  track 
Of  war,  there  were  who  traveled  back 
From  battle  strife  and  fierce  alarms, 
To  loving  hearts  and  tender  arms, — 


MUSINGS.  153 

That  took  their  dust  and  laid  it  down, 
To  rest  beneath  some  grateful  stone, 
That  evermore  shall  proudly  tell 
The  story  how  they  fought  and  fell. 

And  as,  to-day,  with  tearful  pride, 
We  honor  these  our  glorified — 
And  so,  ourselves— e'en  may  we  prove 
Most  worthy  of  that  crowning  love 
Of  God  and  man  and  home  and  hearth, 
That  gave  them  to  the  covering  earth. 
Let  every  flower  be  fresh  with  dew, 
And  every  heart  beat  strong  and  true; 
And  every  hand  be  quick  to  save 
From  harm  this  kingdom  of  the  brave  ! 


THE  OLD  FOLKS  TALK  IT  OVER. 


1WENT  around  this  morning,  John,  to  see  your  "  model " 
church, 
The   bell   had   just   stopped   tolling  as   I   stepped   within   the 

porch; 

Up  through  the  massive  outer  doors,  irreverent  and  gay, 
Came  surging  in  a  giddy  throng,  as  'twere  some  gala  day. 

The   church,  itself,  was  very  grand,   with   broad    and   showy 

aisle, 

And  gilded  dome,  and  turrets  high,  cathedral  like  in  style; 
As  if  had  been  an  effort  to  astonish  heavenly  eyes, 
And   bring,   for   human   greatness,   down  a  plaudit   from   the 

skies  ! 

I  stood 'awhile  in  silence,  upon  humble,  waiting  feet, 
Expecting  to  be  welcomed,  and  invited  to  a  seat; 
Not  up  among  the  highest,  John — I  am  not  proud,  you  kno.w, 
But  somewhere  near  the  middle,  where  the  common  people  go. 


!ij4  MUSINGS. 

I  thought,  by  what  you  told  me,  John,  that  these  were  Chris- 
tian folk; 

So,  quite,  in  a  respectful  way,  I  to  the  sexton  spoke, 
Informing  of  my  wishes;  but,  a-glancing  at  my  gown, 
He  said,  "  perhaps  I'd  better  sit  a  little  farther  down." 

I  took  the  fellow's  meaning,  but,  with  never  thought  of  guile; 
With  reverent   step  I  made   my  way  up  through  the   middle 

aisle 
Until  I  came  well  toward  the  front,  to  one  bright  cushioned 

pew 
In  which,  alone,  was  Nancy  Parr — she  that  was  Pettigrew. 

Nancy  and  me  were  bosom  friends  in  early  days,  you  know, 
So,  stepping  in,  I  took  a  seat.     What  did  the  creature  do 
But — with  a  sort  of  frightened  look  at  my  old  bonnet  brown — 
Creep  close  out  to  the  farther  end  and  leave  me  there  alone. 

At  first  I  felt  a  little  hurt.     But  then  I  thought  that  she— 
That's  Nancy — and  her  husband,  John,  more  fortunate  than 

we, 

Had  much  of  gold,  and  many  lands  to  stimulate  their  pride; 
And  so,  to  think  forgivingly,  with  humbleness,  I  tried. 

Yet,  since  she  felt  so  crowded  like,  despite  the  vacant  space, 
I  thought  that  I  would  rise  and  seek  for  some  more  welcome 

place; 

But,  at  the  moment  solemnly,  the  parson  rose  to  pray, 
And  then  to  hold  the  fort,  for  me  was  there  no  other  way. 

I  sat  all  through  the  service,  John,  a  mark  for  curious  eyes — 
As  if  such  interloping  were  a  subject  for  surprise; 
As  if,  because  my  garments  were  a  little  out  of  style, 
My  presence  should  be  scouted  as  a  something  to  defile. 

Indeed,  did  I  begin  to  think  that  had  the  Holy  One 
In  loosely  Mowing  garments  by  Judean  maidens  spun 
Have  entered,  with  his  fishermen,  that  modern  temple  door, 
They,  too,  had  been  invited  to  the  seatings  for  the  poor. 


MUSINGS.  155 

II. 

If  angels  ever  laugh,  good  wife,  it  surely  must  be  when 
On  silent  wings  they  bend  above  this  world  of  dying  men — 
To  find  them  in  a  scramble  for  such  baubles  as  may  be 
Out-thrown  along  the  borders  of  the  everlasting  sea; 

With  pluming  self-importance  and  amid  a  pigmy  crowd, 
To  fancy  earth  a-quaking  at  their  mighty  step  and  proud; 
To  write   their   names  "  immortal  "  that   upclimb  the   granite 

scroll, 
While   sharpens  well   the   tooth   of  time   for  banquet   on  the 

whole. 

But  what  about  the  doctrine?     Was  i't  founded  on  the  law? 
Did  the  teacher,  from  the  testaments,  the  proper  lessons  draw  ? 
Was  God  a  God  of  terror?     Did  He  sit  an  "awful  throne?" 
Or,  full  of  love  and  kindness,  were  the  erring  yet  his  own  ? 

III. 

To  say  the  truth,  his  doctrine,  John  (he  spake  of  it  as  new), 
Was  much  too  loose,  and  easy  like,  to  meet  my  humble  view; 
I  missed  that  good  old-fashioned  grip  upon  the  throat  of  sin, 
By  which  our  sturdy  fathers  sought  eternal  life  to  win. 

In  short,  he  made  too  flowery  quite  the  pathway  to  be  trod; 
Too  much  about  forgiveness,  and  too  little  of  the  rod; 
The  while,  I  could  not  help  it,  John,  the  question  came  to  me: 
If,  scarcely,  be  the  righteous  saved,  where  shall  the  sinner  be  ? 

IV. 

This  is  a  day  of  progress,  wife.     The  cars  go  whirling  by 
Where,  on  the  double-saddled  nag,  went  jogging  you  and  I. 
In  all  that's  worth  the  living  for,  these  troubled  scenes  among 
Than  any  that  our  fathers  knew,  the  years  are  twice  as  long. 

\Ye  used  to  think  that  heaven,  you  know,  was  far  off  in  the 

sky— 

With  few  to  enter  at  its  gate;  of  hell  as  very  nigh; 
For  so  it  was  our  fathers  taught.      But  in  this  latter  day, 
Reversal  comes,  with  hell  afar,  and  heave.n  not  far  away. 


156  MUSINGS. 

Creation  finished — on  a  throne  outside  the  blue  profound, 
Our  Father  sat,  from  age  to  age,  and  watched  the  wheels  go- 
round, 

With  naught  to  do  but  listen  to  the  high  applauding  song 
Of  glory,  and  hosanna,  from  the  great  white-winged  throng  ! 

To-day  we  know  Him  better — that  He  is  the  tireless  one; 

That  forever  and  forever  He  is  marching,  moving  on; 

With  no  power  that  can  withhold  Him  from  the  conquest  over 

ill, 
Or  prevent  His  love  from  saving  whomsoever  that  it  will. 

Behold  !  were  not  all  moulded  by  our  Maker's  hand  the  same?" 
And  was  not  his  own  great  breath  that  to  each  nostril  came  ? 
What  if,  on  upward  path,  a  few  an  earlier  goal  have  won  ? 
The  others,  though  at  slower  gait,  may  still  be  climbing  on. 

V. 

All  this  is  very  pretty,  John,  and  pleasant  to  receive; 

But  God  and  truth  are  still  the  same,  whatever  men  believe. 

It  may  be  that  in  doctrine  went  the  ages  all  astray; 
That  ever  was  construed  the  word  in  quite  too  serious  way; 
But  who  is  there  that  knoweth  this  ?     Suppose  we  go  amiss  ? 
Can  we  afford  to  take  much  risk  in  matters  such  as  this? 

As  I  came  home  from  church  I  thought  too  many  years  had 

crowned 

The  heads  of  such  as  you  and  me,  to  go  prospecting  round 
For  pastures  full  of  roses  which,  however  they  adorn, 
For  unprotected  feet,  like  ours,  may  hide  some  sharpest  thorn. 

Besides,  when  called  upon  to  pass  the  shining  portals  through, 
What  matter  if,  at  last,  they  prove  much  wider  than  we  knew  ? 
By  far  the  greater  recompense  shall  come  to  our  behoof, 
If  shall  be  found  of  room  to  spare,  than  if  be  not  enough. 


'57 

A   REVERIE. 


ends  the  scene!   Earth's  short,  sharp  strife  is  o'er: 

To  this  dark  waiting-  shore, 

One  fateful  day, 
The  boatman  came,  and  with  his  dipping  oar 

Bore  her  away 
Peace,  darling,  peace!     But  thou,  O  boatman  pale-, 

If  thou  mays't  e'er  reveal 

Thy  journey's  end — 
Tell  us  thy  secret:  whither  dids't  thou  sail 

With  this  our  friend  ? 

For  if  she  lives,  and  something  says  'tis  true — 

Somewhere  beyond  the  blue, 

Or  far,  or  near, 
She  hath  not  quite  forgotten,  this  I  know, 

Her  darlings  here; 

And  she  would  send  them  greeting,  it  may  be, 
.  From  o'er  the  silent  sea, — 

Their  hearts  to  bless — 
Some  cheering  word;  perchance,  would  send  by  thee 

A  mother's  kiss. 

And  we,  some  loving  message  back  would  send, 

Pale  boatman  by  thy  hand; 

That  she  may  know 
How  lonely  is  the  little  household  band 

Left  here  below. 
But  whither  shall  we  seek  her — in  what  land  or  clime  ? 

Alas!  by  that  grim  pantomime 

That  fits  thee  well, 
I  read  thy  answer,  boatman:  "  Land  or  clime 

I  may  not  tell." 

And  yet,  sometimes,  a  fleeting  smile  I  trace 
Upon  thy  marble  face, 
As  if  it  were, 


158  MUSINGS. 

Despite  exterior  cold,  some  pitying  grace 

Had  nestled  there; 
And,  bending  low,  I  strive  with  hungering  ear, 

Some  echoing  voice  to  hear, 

From  some  far  shore, 
That  shall  dispel  this  shuddering,  craven  fear, 

Forevermore. 

In  vain — 'tis  all  in  vain!      I  only 

That  one  by  one  we  ^ 

Boatman,  with  thee; 
We  know  what  is — but  all  beyond  the  no-w 

Is  mystery. 
Well,  keep  thy  secret!     I  can  wait! 

Not  far  off  is  the  sea; 

And,  soon  or  late, 
Thy  signal  sail  shall  flash  the  hour  that  fate 

Shall  toll  for  me. 

And  as  a  child,  awearied  of  its  play, 

On  some  fair  summer  day, 

Lies  down  to  sleep — 
So,  leaving  all  earth's  troubles  by  the  way, 

I,-  too,  may  sleep; 
Yet  shall  I  wake!  and  as  I  reach  the  strand 

Of  that  fair  promised  land 

Across  the  sea, 
I  have  a  faith,  that  one  with  outstretched  hand, 

Will  welcome  me. 

And  with  such  harvest,  as  I  well  can  glean 
From  barren  field  and  plain, 
I'll  step  ashore; 

And,  taking  up  life's  broken  thread  again, 
Go  on  forevermore. 

Forevermore  ?     Ah,  who  can  comprehend 
Beginnings  without  end — 
A  stream  without  a  sea  ? 


MUSINGS.  159 

No  matter,  it  must  be,  since  all  things  upward  tend 
To  immortality. 

The  outer  ill  decays,  the  inner  good  survives — 

In  newer  form,  maybe, 

Yet  still  survives. 
In  all  things  else,  God  levels. to  upbuild — shall  He 

Except  these  human  lives  ? 


Then   fare   thee   well,   beloved;    where  the   tall   dead  grasses 

wave, 

We  have  given  up  thy  ashes  to  the  silence  of  the  grave; 
But   we   know   'twas    but    thy   ashes,   that   thy    spirit,     taking 

wing, 
Found   a  home  of  peace   and   beauty   in  the  kingdom  of  the 

King. 

Soon    the    snow-blast    of    the    winter,    shall    a  ,  fleecy  blanket 

spread, 

Setting  up  its  ghostly  statues  all  about  thy  narrow  bed; 
And   again,    the    timid    snowdrop    shall    precede    the  coming 

spring, 
But  there's  neither  snow,  or  snowdrop,  in  the  kingdom  of  the 

King. 

Then  peace  to  thee,  beloved;  and  when  the  years  shall  ring 
The   knell  that   brings   me    knocking    at    the    portals   of    the 

King, 
Wilt   thou    promise,  oh,  my   darling,   that  with  ////;/  who  u*ciil 

before, 
Thou  wilt  stand  for  me  as  voucher  at  the  golden  palace  door: 

Tell  the  warder  that  "A  pilgrim,  travel-worn  and  very  late, 
Poor  and   needy,   blind  and  helpless,  knocketh  at  the  outer 

gate; 

Not  for  merit,  or  for  labor,  is  there  aught  for  him  to  claim, 
Save  for  love  unto  his  neighbor,  (and  he  says  it  to  his  shame); 


l6o  MUSINGS. 

But  the  clogs  that  did  outweigh   him,  doth   no   longer  to  him 

cling; 
All  he  asketh  now  is  labor  in  the  service  of  the  King." 

And  if  the  gates  are  opened  so  that.  I  may  enter  in, 

All  the  past  will  be  as  nothing  to  the  life  that  shall  begin; 

Not  a  life  of  selfish  pleasure;   not  a  life  of  lazy  bliss; 

But  a  life,  except  in  measure,  much  the  counterpart  of  this; 

Where   each   thought   for  God  and   duty  shall  a  rich  fruition 

bring, 
As  we  live,  and  love  forever,  in  the  kingdom  of  the  King. 


IN  THE  COTTAGE  BESIDE  THE  SEA. 


i. 

0N  the   banks   of    the   blue    Potomac,    in   the  marsh  of    its 
sunken  shore, 
The  foe  was  intrenched,  while  his  legions  invested  the  White 

House  door. 
Creeping    through     crack    and     crevice — on     the     midnight's 

poisoned  breath, 
The  chill  and  the  burning  fever  went  in  to  the  work  of  death. 

Lo!  the  hero  upon  his  pallet!  a  world  by  his  wounded  side, 
Waiting — how  tearfully  waiting — a  turn  in  the  outward  tide; 
Oh!  but  the  terrible  pity  that  manhood  so  sweet  and  grand 
Should  lie  in  such  deadly  peril,  by  the  act  of  so  mean  a  hand! 

Christ!  that  Thy  tender  kindness  had  not  warded   the    ruffian 

ball! 
God!     that    Thy    "providences"    should    have    suffered    this 

"  sparrow's  fall." 

Nay,  but  we  must  not  question.     Who  ruleth  so  well  as  He 
That  led  in  the  days  of  darkness,  through  another   and  deeper 

sea  ? 


MUSINGS.  l6l 

II. 

•"All  quiet  along  the  Potomac,"  the  bulletins  daily  cry, 
And  daily  the  quickened  pulses  to  the  bulletins  give  the  lie! 
Daily  the  courage  mounteth  the  wings  of  a  hopefulness, 
But  to  sink  with  the  evening  shadows  to  a  deeper  yet  abyss. 

All  quiet  along  the  Potomac!  save  only  the  careful  tread, 
Of  sorrowing  ones  that  followed  the  path  that  the  hero  led; 
Or  the  voice  of  the  steed  in   waiting  the  suffering  one  to  bear 
To  a  region  of  hope  and   promise,  from  the  gates  of  a  grim 
despair. 

III. 

Up  from  the  blue  Potomac!     Up  from  its  sunken  shore, 
Death,  on  his  phantom' charger  rallies  his  pallid  corps; 
Ho!  but  the  victim  fleeth!  follow  him,  Fever  and  Chill! 
Follow  him,  oh  malaria,  mother  of  many  an  ill! 

Down  goes  the  throttle  lever!     Ready  now,  clear  the  track! 
Wheels   of    the   great   world's   traffic,   stand    for  the   moment 

back! 

Hand  on  the  rein  that  guideth,  steady  now,  hold  with  care! 
When  did  an  iron  charger  so  precious  a  burthen  bear  ? 

Wide    goes    the    iron    throttle!    and    with    giants    quickened 

breath, 

Proclaimeth  a  stern  defiance  to  the  grim  pursuer  death! 
'"Let    her   go!"    and   the   wakened  forests   have  joined   in  a 

mighty  strife, 
And  a  mile  to  the  whirling  minute  is  the   race  for  a  human 

life! 

On,  on,  without  stop  or  turning,  o'er  the  farms  of  "  My  Mary- 
land! " 

On,  and  on  to  the  Susquehanna — neck  and  neck  to  the  waiting 
strand — 

Went  the  steed  and  its  grim  pursuer  where,  alas!  must  the 
struggle  be 

Yet  renewed  for  the  final  triumph,  in  the  Cottage  that's  by  the 
Sea. 


1 62  MUSINGS. 

IV. 

All  is  quiet  along  the  Potomac;  for  the  bulletin  at  the  gate, 
With  the  words  of  its  studied  blindness,  no  more  do  the  people 

wait ; 
With  their  shadow  upon  their  portals,  and  their  fear  of  the  yet 

to  be, 
They  turn   with  a  yearning  vision  to  the  Cottage  beside  the 

Sea. 

And  so,  all  our  great  land   over,  we  turn  from  the  wond'rous 

tale 
Of  the  race   of  the  iron  giant,   with  the    steed   of    the   rider 

pale; — 
And  we  sigh  for  our  plucky  hero;  and  we  pray  that  there  yet 

may  be, 
Victory — waiting  victory,  for  him,  by  the  sounding  sea. 

Come   to  him,   O   ye   breezes!    with    the  balm   of  a  thousand 

isles; 
Temper,   O   skies,   to   his   weakness,    the   heat   of    thy  ardent 

smiles; 

Soothe  him  to  rest,  Great  Ocean! — God  of  the  brave  and  free, 
Come,  with  Thy  grace  of  healing,   to   the   Cot   that   is  by  the 

Sea. 

V. 

And  yet,  though  we  bend  in  sadness,  how,  greater  than  kingly 

crown, 
Must   the  love  of  a   loyal   people   be  to   him   that   is  stricken 

down! — 

To  know  that  for  him  the  forces  of  science  are  all  in  play! 
That  gold  is  poured  out  unstinted!  that  faction  is  swept  away! 

That  a  nation  of  fifty  millions — aye,  more,   that  a  world  doth 

bend, 
At  the  throne  of  the  great    Eternal,  for  a  stay  of  the  spoiler's 

hand! 
And    this,   for   a   simple   "boatman!"     And    where   doth   the 

secret  lie  ?  " 
And  whom  shall  we  count  more  happy,  however,  or   when   he 

die? 


MUSINGS.  163 

LOWERING  THE  STANDARD. 

MUST  the  church  be  kept,  then,  above  the  world 
Too  high  for  a  common  sinner's  reach  ? 
Is  this  the  banner  that  Christ  unfurled  ? 

Is  this  the  doctrine  He  bid  you  preach  ? 

Did  He  bid  you  stand  on  some  rocky  height, 

And  hurl  your  thunders  on  all  below 
Who  see  not  truth  in  your  partial  light, 

Yet  who  are  hungering  truth  to  know  ? 

Didst  never  hear?  Oh,  saint  and  priest — 
So  free  thyselves  from  the  taint  of  sin — 

Didst  never  hear  of  that  famous  feast, 

Where  the  halt  and  the  blind  were  taken  in  ? 

It  may  be,  neighbor,  that  wondrous  light 

Hath  blinded  thine  eye — sometimes  it  will — 

To  the  truth,  forever,  that  martyred  Right 
In  humble  garb  hath  upclimbed  the  hill, 

To  be  mocked  and  buffeted  by  the  crowd 

Whose  ears  are  sealed,  but  whose  tongue  is  free 

To  spit  contempt  from  their  spirits  proud 
At  the  son  of  God  that  is  on  the  tree! 

Down!     Get  thee  down  from  thy  lofty  perch- 
Down  to  the  level  of  common  men!— 

Down  to  our  human  hearts,  thou  church, 
Nor  ban  the  ninety  to  save  the  ten! 

How  dost  know  that  thy  words  are  true:— 

How  dost  know  but  in  future  time, 
But  to  open  thy  doors  to  a  harnessed  few 

Will  be  held,  as  it  is,  but  a  monstrous  crime  ? 

Where  is  that  doctrine  the  fathers  held — 

The  infant  roast  in  the  region  dire  ? 
Dead!  by  the  progress  that  hath  dispelled 

The  literal  pit,  with  its  literal  fire! 


164  MUSINGS. 

Ah,  do  we  not  know  how  some  men  live 

Whose  prayers  are  lengthy — that  make  pretence  ? 

That  carefully  figure,  before  they  give, 

With  profit  and  loss,  the  whole  expense  ? 

And — leaving  their  honesty  in  their  pews — 

Go  sallying  forth  upon  the  street 
To  balance  accounts;  from  honest  dues 

Their  neighbor  to  "  higgle  "  and  strive  to  "  beat." 

Nay,  rny  indictment  is  not  for  all; 

Grand  souls  thou  hast  in  thy  fold,  O  church! 
Who  make  no  boast,  yet  whose  footsteps  fall 

With  grace  and  fitness  within  thy  porch: 

Who  hold  thee  not — as  above  the  world — 
Too  high  for  a  common  sinner's  reach; 

Yet — under  the  banner  that  Christ  unfurled — 
Hold  not  to  the  creed  that  the  bigots  teach. 


'WHAT  WINS?" 

1. 

But  what  is  the  "victory  "  worth,  my  friend  ? 

Will  it  profit  you  thus  to  chain 
Your  feet  to  the  wheel  of  ambition,  or  stand 

At  the  counter  with  shackled  brain, 

Till  the  soul  cries  out  with  pain  ? 

For  what  is  the  goal  of -this  feverish  race  ? 

Is  it  wealth  that  hath  wings  ?     Is  it  fame  ? 
Lo  !  the  years  go  by  at  a  merciless  pace, 
And  the  toiler  hath  found  but  an  humble  place, 

'Neath  a  stone,  with  a  chiseled  name, 
That  even  the  sands  of  the  granite  gray — 

Ere  they  crumble  away — 


Ml'SINGS.  165 

To-morrow  shall  tell  to  forgetfulness  ! 

For  the  curious  stranger  shall  pass  that  way, 

And  question,  "  What  manner  of  man  was  he, 

That  lieth  so  low  in  the  tangled  grass?" 
But  the  neighbors  shall  answer  with  sad  refrain, 
"  We  only  know,  that  with  scheming  brain, 

And  a  shriveled  soul, 

He  stood  at  the  gateway  and  gathered  toll." 

II. 
Is  it  not  pitiful  ?     Clinging  to  earth, 

As  if  with  eternity's  hold  ! 
One  day  in  the  seven  to  prate  of  "new  birth," 

And  six  on  our  knees  to  the  old — 

At  the  shrine  of  the  Moloch  of  gold  ! 
One  single  stray  thought  for  the  measureless  years, 

And  six  for  this  second  of  time  ! 
As  if  our  dark  valley  so  watered  by  tears, 

Verged  not  on  a  region  sublime — 

'Neath  a  fairer  and  happier  clime; 
Where  the  nerve  must  "  relax  "  from  its  perilous  strain, 

And  the  smile  shall  unravel  the  frown; 
Where  the  tyrant  of  thought  must  unlimber  the  brain, 
And  the  slave  of  ambition  shall  sunder  the  chain, 

That  to  selfishness  held  him  down. 
Already  the  eye  that  but  lately  was  blurred 

By  the  folds  of  Mortality's  veil, 

Hath  pierced  through  the  gloom,  and  the  bosom  is  stirred 
By  the  whispers  of  angels  that  long  to  be  heard 

From  their  home  in  the  land  of  the  leal. 

Then  away  with  this  nightmare  of  ceaseless  toil  ! 

This  burthen  of  heart  and  brain  ! 
This  drowning  of  life  in  the  midnight  oil, 

In  the  headlong  race  for  gain  ! 
For  what  shall  it  profit  who  gaineth  the  earth, 

And  loseth  one  joy  from  his  soul  ? 
Cast  the  globe  at  his  feet  and  what  is  it  worth, 

But  to  burthen  his  way  to  the  goal  ? 

Twould  not  pay  the  old  ferryman's  toll ! 


I  66  MUSINC1S. 

THE  CHURCH  OUR  FATHERS  BUILT. 


0NCE  within  a  marble  city,  where  the  people,  low  and  still, 
Slept   in   sweet   and   quiet   places,    all   around    a    village 

hill, 
Stood  a  church  of  plain  proportions,   weather-beaten,  old  and 

gray, 

With  a  quaint  and  rustic  steeple,  pointing  heavenward,  .by  the 
way. 

Little  though  was  there,  in  seeming,    through    the  six   days  of 

the  week, 

Of  its  work,  or  of  its  mission,  in  its  loneliness,  to  speak, 
Yet,  upon  the  holy  seventh,  to  its  hospitable  door, 
As  unto  a  hill  of  refuge  came  the  weary  and  the  poor. 

Unto    whom   it   spake   with   promise   of    some   region  of    the 

blest, 
Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling  and  the  weary  are  at 

rest; 
With  the  ever  sweet  "Our  Father"  teaching  mortals  how  to 

pray; 
Or,  with  grand  old  Coronation,  making  glad  the  Sabbath  day. 

Yet,  to  fail   not  bounden  duty,   as  it    thought,  with  warning 

breath, 

It  reminded  of  the  terrors  of  impending  "second  death," 
To  the  mercy  seat  yet  pointing,  and  to  One  upon  the  throne, 
That  forever  and  forever  keepeth  watch  upon  His  own. 

Thou  shalt  keep  my   Sabbath    holy — thou    and  all   within  thy 

gates; 
There  it  stood  in  His  handwriting,  plain  upon  the  granite 

plates;— 

Heeding  they  the  holy  mandate,  o'er  the  early  morning  sod, 
Went  the  faithful,  asking  nothing  but  the  favor  of  their  God: 

Stopping  not  to  carp  at  Moses  or  a  questioning  to  raise 
As  to  methods  of  creation,  or  the  number  of  its  days; 


MUSINGS.  167 

Knowing"    this,    and    this   sufficing — from    the  oak  the   acorn 

bore, 
Came,  in  turn,  the  oak  forever;  who  is  he  that  knoweth  more  ? 

Ah!     How  well  do  I  remember,  as  the  past  comes  into  view, 
How   we  sat,    imprisoned   urchins,  in  the  greeit  old  fashioned 

pew — 

Duty's  eye  upon  the  preacher,  winged  thought  upon  the  hills, 
With  the  buttercups  and  daisies,  and  the  music  of  the  rills. 

"Ninthly,"  "  tenthly,"  stretched  the  sermon.  Would  it  never- 
more be  done  ? 

Harder  grew  the  polished  benches, — slower  ran  the  moments 
on ; 

Still  the  preacher  wove  his  logic  though  whatever  'twas  about, 

I  am  sure  I  cannot  tell  you,  for  I  could  not  make  it  out: 

Only  this,  perhaps,  that,  somewhere,  something  dreadful  was 
in  wait, 

For  whoever  failed  to  enter  at  some  "  straight  and  narrow 
gate!" 

Fire  and  brimstone!  death  eternal!  gnashing  teeth  and  crush- 
ing woe, — 

How  the  hideous  words  went  seething  all  my  boyish  nature 
through! 

How  I  wrestled  with  their  meaning,  as  I  thought  them  o'er  and 
o'er, 

Wond'ring  if  good,  loving  fathers  cursed  their  children  ever- 
more. 

Time  hath  healed  the  mental  anguish,  love  hath  charmed  the 
curse  away, 

Yet  the  tree,  so  warped  and  wounded,  plainly  hath   the  scar, 

to-day. 
*  #  *  * 

On,  the  train  of  human  progress  through  the  valley  thunders 

on; 
Of    the  church    our   fathers  builded,   there    remaineth    not  a 

stone; 


1 68  MUSINGS. 

Where   the   headstone,   quaintly  graven,   hailed   the  stranger, 

passing  by, 
With  the  warning  note  of  judgment,  lifts  a  temple  to  the  sky. 

On   its   floors  are  costly  carpets,   in  their  splendor    rich   and 

rare — 
Overhead,  a   thousand    torches  flash    their    brightness  to  the 

air; 

Jewelled  cups  upon  the  altar,  costly  paintings  on  the  wall, 
Pride  of  wealth  and  pride  of  station,  fashion  ruling  over  all. 

Dives  sits  his  velvet  cushions,  as  an  oyster,  cold  and  dumb, 
On  the  plate  his  "  margins  "   placing   'gainst  the  evil  days  to 

come,    . 

Leaving  to  the  well  paid  pulpit  with  Jehovah  terms  to  make, 
Doubtful,  after  all,  hereafter,  if  he  sleep  or  if  he  wake. 

Fancy  Him,  that  in  the  mortal   "bore   the  burden  of  our  sin," 
Walking   'neath   the   gorgeous   arches — would    the  warder  let 

Him  in  ? 
Garments   old   and   coarsely   woven,    to   the   Rabbi's    bending 

low, 
Preaching,  as  he  goes,  His  sermon  on  the  mount  of  long  ago! 

"  Give   to   every  one   that  asketh,"    "Turn  the  borrower  not 

away," 
^  Feed  the  hungry,"    "  Clothe  the  naked,"    "Debts    unto  the 

farthing  pay;" 
"Take  no  thought  about   thy  raiments;  "   "Preach  my  gospel, 

make  it  free." 

"  Give  to  every   one  that   asketh,"   "  Turn   the  borrower  not 

away," 
"Pay  thy  debts,  e'en  to  the  farthing,"  none  of  these  were  for 

to-day. 
"  Something  about  early  rising  ? "     That  will   do   and   that  is 

tried, 
With  the  Marys,  for  example,  at  the  tomb  of  the  crucified. 


MUSINGS.  169 

Bigots  are  they  ?       Aye,   most  likely,    bigots    in    that  higher 

sense, 

Which,  for  holy  truth  in  peril,  holdeth  life  a  cheap  defence; 
Yet,  in  all  their  worldly  dealings,  paying  justly  what  is  owed, 
AVheresoe'er   their    footsteps    take  them  you  shall  pick  them 

from  the  crowd. 

Take    the    sneer,  oh  blatant  scoffer]    doubt  or  spurn    hope's 

proffered  boon, 
Smite  the  mountains  till  they  tremble,  mock  the  sun,  or  bay  the 

moon ! 

Yet  until  the  skies  shall  darken  at  the  shadow  of  thy  frown, 
Stands  the  church  our  fathers  builded  and  ye  cannot  sneer  it 

down. 

"  Errors?"  Yes,  from  human  standpoint — of  the  mortal,  of 
the  earth, 

Yet  to  whom  it  bringeth  comfort  shall  we  count  it  little  worth? 

Founded  on  the  truth  of  ages — reaching  to  some  bright  un- 
known, 

Stands  the  church  our  fathers  builded,  and  ye  cannot  tear  it 
down. 


CASTLE  BUILDING. 


¥HERE   would   be  a  children*'   party,  so   'twas    whispered 
round  one  day, 
And  the  poet  must  be  present  with  a  something  sweet  to  say. 

But,   the    hollow   tree    and    leafless,   could   it   fellowship   with 

flowers  ? 
Should  the  evening's  closing  shadows  mingle  with  the  morning 

hours  ? 

Snow  and  frost  around  me  drifting: — hand  upon  the  slowing 

rein, — 
Thus  I  asked  the  warning  pulses,  can  I  be  a  child  again  ? 


1 70  MUSINGS. 

Then   upspake   the   heart  within   me,   "even  till  the   shadows 

fall, 
Keep  the  boyish  heart  in  beating,  men  are  children,  after  all." 

So  I  burnish  up  my  pictures,  and  I  dream  anew  the  dream, 
Of  my  childhood's  pretty  castles,  somewhere  down  upon  the 
stream. 

How  they  lifted  in  the  glory  of  their  turrets  to  the  sky — 
How  the  gates  of  pearly  splendor  flashed  their  brightness  to 
the  eye  ! 

With  the  hopefulness  of  boyhood,  oh  how   sanguine  was  the 

dream 
Of    the    castles   to    be    builded,   somewhere,    down    upon    the 

stream  ! 

I  would  have  a  mighty  vessel,  and  a  mariner  would  be — 

I  would  bring  the  spicy  treasures  from  the  islands  of  the  sea. 

I  would  have  a  pretty  palace,  and  a  coachman,  and  a  span- 
E'en  would  fill  the  world  with  wonder,  when  I  grew  to  be  a 
man  ! 

So  I  builded  and  upbuilded,  in  some  evermore  to  be, 
Far  adown  the  rapid  river  that  is  running  to  the  sea. 

But,  my  children,  I  confess  it,  still,  as  in  my  morning  dream, 
I  am  planning,  I  am  building  farther  down  upon  the  stream. 

Scarce  a  stone  has  yet  been  planted,  more  substantial  than  the 

air: 
I  have  sailed  no  mighty  vessels  —  I  have  found  no  treasure 

rare; 

E'en  the  palace,  and  the  servants,  and  the  fame  that  I  would 

get, 
May  be  somewhere  down  the  river,  but  I  have  not  seen  them 

yet. 


MUSINGS.  i 

So  I  think  it  fair  to  tell  you,  that  I've  learned  upon  the  way, 
As  a  rule,  that  castle  building,  in  the  end  will  never  pay. 

Modest  estimates  and  figures,  for  some  probable  to  be, 

Is  by  far  the  best  and  safest,  for  us,  children — you  and  me. 


NIGHT  ON  THE  BOULEVARD. 


YTFHE  sun  is  down  in  the  crimson  west; 
A  The  shadows  up  from  the  eastward  creep; 

As  if  with  a  trouble  upon  his  breast, 

Old  ocean  sobbeth  himself  to  sleep. 

Phantomlike  surges  the  airy  throng 

Through  the  great  pavilions  with  ebb  and  flow, 
Over  the  lake  comes  the  boatman's  song, 

Hither  and  thither  the  lanterns  glow. 

The  children's  castles  along  the  strand 

By  the  evening  billows  are  swept  away; 

For  the  children  built  but  of  shifting  sand, 

As  their  fathers  built — as  they  build  to-day. 

Faces  of  friends  that  a  passing  hour 

Taught  me  to  cherish  as  souls  akin, 

Peep,  as  it  were,  through  the  closing  door — 
The  closing  door  of  the  what  hath  been. 

"  The  what  hath  been  ? "     Are  the  by-gones  dead  ? 

A  joy  in  the  soul  can  the  soul  forget? 
Not  so.     For  the  good  that  th'  past  hath  had, 

To-day  and  to-morrow  are  living  yet, 

In  the  firmer  step;   in  the  better  thought; 

In  the  braver  heart  of  this  world  of  men, 
The  sum  of  to-morrow  were  illy  wrought, 

With  no  carrying  balance  from  what  hath-  been. 


172  MUSINGS. 

To-morrow,  and  out  from  this  summer  stream, 
The  pulse  and  throb  of  the  great  hotels, 

We  shall  turn  away  and  our  waving  hand 
Shall  answer  them  back  a  mute  farewell. 

A  week,  or  was  it  a  fortnight  since 

Among  these  pleasures  our  lot  was  cast  ? 

It  mattereth  not,  for  though  short  or  long, 
The  short  vacation  must  end  at  last — 

In  the  packing  trunk,  the  parting  kiss, 

The  "write  to  me  darling,  forget  me  not;" 

And  the  promise,  alas!  for  our  carelessness, 
So  easily  given,  so  soon  forgot. 

For  such  is  life,  as  by  magic  glass 

The  pigmy  throng  on  the  screen  is  thrown; 
We  flash  into  view  and  as  quickly  pass 

From  sight  and  into  the  dim  unknown. 

Yet,  friends,  to-morrow  with  parting  song 
Though  we  turn  our  faces  and  feet  away, 

May  the  cords  of  friendship  prove  so  strong 
As  to  bring  us  back  on  some  future  day: 

To  breathe  the  balm  of  this  healing  air — 
To  bathe  in  the  waters  of  ocean  blue; 

From  out  of  the  wearying  world  of  care, 

Our  hearts  to  strengthen,  our  souls  renew, 

In  the. contemplation  of  Him  that'  holds 

The  surging  waves  in  his  hollow  hand — 

To  dig  with  our  shovels  in  sands  of  gold, 

For  all  that  is  noble  and  good  and  grand. 


MUSINGS.       . 

NEW  YEAR'S  THOUGHTS. 


TITHE  skies  are  of  a  leaden  hue.     The  shiv'ring  earth  below 
A       Seems  waiting,  from  the  burthened  air,  the  sifting  of  the 

snow. 

The  dancers  trip  the  old  year  out  at  parlor,  rink  and  hall, 
While  at  the  kirk  a  chosen  few  are  praying  for  them  all. 

The  clock  is  on  the  stroke  of  twelve.     The  old  steps  down  and 

out. 

Forth  from  the  portals  of  the  new — as  to  a  thing  of  doubt: — 
I  stretch  my  hand  to  eighty-five,  which  enters  at  the  door, 
And  give — remembering  all  it  was — good  bye  to  eighty-four. 

Change  rides  upon  the  rapid  hour.     The   seasons  come  and 

go, 

There's  blooming  of  the  roses,  there  is  drifting  of  the  snow. 
We  plant  and  sow  and  bide  our  time;  yet  from  the  springtide 

forth. 
What  man  is  he  that  can  foretell  the  harvest  of  the  earth  ? 

Yet,   furrowed   brow,   and   graying   lock,   though    many   years 

unfold, 

What  if  our  life  be  just  as  long,  despite  this  "growing  old  ?" 
\Vhat  if,  indeed,  somewhere  beyond,  be  taken  up  the  thread 
Of  life,  that  Time,  the  weaver,  drops  in  cities  of  the  dead  ? 

II. 

Where  are  the  stars,  one  year  ago,  that  sparkled  overhead  ? 
I  seek,  in  vain,  for  them  to-night;  have  they  gone  dark  and 

dead  ? 

Nay;  but  there  is  a  misty  cloud  betwixt  me  and  the  sky, 
Which— swept  away — shall  reveal  their  glory  to  the  eye. 

Out  from  our  busy  village  life  this  eighteen  eighty-five, 
Full  many  a  cherished  friend  I  miss,  no  longer  yet  alive. 
E'en  as  I  write,  the  list  grows  long,  until  with  heart  bereft, 
I  mark — to  nature's  rightful  claim,  how  few,  how  few  are  left  ! 


174  MUSINGS. 

Among  our  honored  dead  is  one,  late  guardian  of  our  wealth;* 
Another  stood  with  kindly  hand,  preserver  of  our  health. \ 
A  third! — our  calm  philosopher — to  three  score  years  and  ten, 
Each,  in  his  way,  fit  model  for  a  world  of  younger  men. 

But  these  had  lived  allotted  time — were  bending  to  the  snow; 
To  reach,  at  best,  the  final  goal,  they  had  not  far  to  go. 
But  what  of  her,§  the  bride  betrothed,  to  consort  with  the  worm 
Who   went   from   sight   that   August   day,   amid   the   blinding 
storm  ? 

And  what — upon  whose  closing  grave  shone  bright  September's 

sun, 

Of  her||  who  vanished  out  of  life  that  only  had  begun  ? 
The  light  of  home  !  a  parent's  joy  !  the  best  beloved  of  all  ? 
Can  He  who  notes  not  also  save  the  fledgling  sparrow's  fall  ? 

These  left  their  work  unfinished.     From  the  dim  mysterious 

bourne 

That  lies  beyond  the  shadows,  will  the  maidens  not  return  ? 
Gone,  like  the  stars,  behind  a  cloud,  who  knoweth  but,  some 

day, 
They'll  come  to  us,  as  come  the  stars  when  clears  the  mists 

away. 

III. 

What  of    the   morrow?     From   on   high   the   sun's  benignant 

forces, 

As  from  its  birth,  fall  on  the  earth  yet  swinging  on  its  courses. 
Last    year,    as    ever    had    before,    the    meadows    bloomed    as 

queenly; 
The  crops  grew  well;  and  for  the  flocks  the  hills  loomed  up 

as  greenly; 


*Joseph  Arnold  died  April  2ist,  1884. 
f  Dr.  Ambrose  Beardsley  died  Oct  3Oth,  1884. 
^Stephen  N.  Somers  died  Dec.  24th,  1884. 
§Carrie  Smith  Sprague  died  Aug.  28th,  1884. 
||Ina  Gertrude  Peck  died  Sept.  5th,  1884. 


MUSINGS.  175 

Yet,  on  the  streets,  strong,  hardy  men,  the  toiler's  wage 
demanding 

To  purchase  bread,  with  empty  hand,  in  hungry  ranks  are 
standing. 

What  if  we  pray  "God  help  the  poor!"  though  proper  quite 
to  pray  it, 

For  hungry  mouths,  a  peck  of  meal  would  many  times  out- 
weigh it; 

In  yonder  city  on  the  hill,  a  mound  but  late  uprounding, 
Contains  her  dust  whose  helpful  hand  was  evermore  abound- 
ing* 

In  deeds  of  mercy  to  the  poor;  so  that,  when  all  was  ended, 
Upon  her  grave  great  loving  tears  in  copious  showers  descended. 

Go  ask  the  poor  that  she  called  hers,  if  any  be  that  doubt  it, 
With    grateful    lip   and    sorrowing    heart    they'll    tell    you    all 

about  it: 

Of  all  the  clouds  she  silver  lined,  of  burdens  made  the  lighter, 
Of  children  from  her  bounty  fed,  of  hearthstones  made  the 

brighter  ! 

Not  far  away,  upon  the  hill,  the  pauper  dust  is  sleeping 
Of  whom  in  life,  with  greedy  hand,  but  gathered  for  the  keep- 
ing; 

A  sturdy  worshiper  of  gold,  sharp,  shrewd  and  stony-hearted — 
Who  made  rejoicing  that  he  lived,  or  wept  when  he  departed  ? 

The  cold,  white  slab,  with  quoted  line,  his  best  to  make  the 

most  of; 
The  rounding  sod,  the  shroud,  the  worm — what  else  has  he  to 

boast  of? 
"Go  to!"   He   said,  "  death   endeth   all!"  so   took   his   stingy 

rations, 
And  lived  for  self  and  worldly  gain,  and  died — for  his  relations. 


*Mary  Jane  Shelton  died  Dec.  28th,  1884. 


176  MUSINGS. 

Death  ends  not  all;  but,  if  it  did,  which  had  the  truest  living? 
The  miser?  or,  with  loving  hand  who  gathered  but  for  giving  ? 
Who  answered  well  the-  cynic  sneer  about  that  gentle  charity, 
Whose  left   hand   knoweth   not   its   right,  the   sweeter  for   its 
rarity. 

The  clock  strikes  twelve,  the  year  goes  out  with  all  its  check- 
ered story, 

Wind-fallen  fruit,  and  broken  toys,  yet  here  and  there  a  glory 
Among  the  noblest,  best  of  which  was  this  true-hearted  woman, 
Who  showed  the  world  how  much  of  God  may  dwell  within 
,  the  human  ! 


SAD    MOMENTS. 

YES,  there  are  moments  when  this  life 
Looks  dark  to  us  and  dreary; 
When  with  its  toil,  turmoil  and  strife, 
Its  darkened  paths  with  sorrow  rife, 
The  stoutest  heart  grows  weary. 

Seen  through  despondency's  magic  lens, 

Each  hillock  grows  a  mountain; 
But  throw  aside  the  glass,  and  then, 
We  boldly  onward  march,  like  men, 
Each  obstacle  surmounting. 

For  after  all,  'tis  not  so  ill — 

This  world — as  some  would  make  it 
Though  whatsoe'er  its  cup  may  fill, 
Its  average  joy  must,  largely,  still 

Depend  on  how  we  take  it. 

Who  looketh  o'er  the  frowning  brink 
And  trembles  at  the  danger 

Which  lies  below,  his  wayward  feet 

Are  apt  to  turn  the  ill  to  meet 

That  else  had  been  a  stranger. 


MUSINGS.  177 

Who  skyward  turns  his  steady  face, 

To  right  or  left  unswerving, 
May  safely  run  his  daily  race, 
Unmindful  of  each  dang'rous  place, 
That  else  had  been  unnerving. 

Full  half  the  burdens  that  we  bear 

Are  children  of  foreboding; 
Dark  forms  of  grim,  unreal  care, 
Crowd  in  upon  the  mental  air, 

Our  very  hearts  corroding. 

E'en  when  around  us  wrapped  we  find 

The  clouds  of  real  sorrow, 
'Twill  help  us  little  to  repine; 
Far  wiser  we,  to  leave  behind 

The  past,  and  trust  the  morrow. 


THE  YET  TO   BE. 


WHAT,   for  me,    hath   proud   ambition  ?     I    have   not   the 
soaring  wings 
That  can  mount  the  high  empyrean  and  consort  with  mighty 

things: — 

Of  the  earth,  I  am  but  earthly;  yet,  forevermore  to  me, 
There  is  something  calling,  calling  as  of  something  yet  to  be. 

Deep   within   my   inmost   spirit    there   are    voices,    sweet   and 

clear, 
That   at  times  come  singing,  singing  of  some  glory    that    is 

near; 

And  my  soul,  as  in  a  rapture,  catches  up  the  hopeful  glee, 
And  goes  onward  calling,  calling  for  that  something  yet  to  be. 

What  it  is  or  whither  leading — up  or  down  the  steep  incline,— 
Till  it  comes  I  cannot  tell  you,  for  the  secret  is  not  mine: 


178  MUSINGS. 

Yet  the  voices,  still  the  voices, — for  that  glory  to  begin, — 
Evermore  are  calling,  calling  from  without  and  from  within. 

I  have  sat  beneath  the  splendor  of  the  starlit  evening  sky, 
With  my  soul  absorbed  in  wonder  at  the  majesty  on  high! 
Though  I  could  not  find  expression  for  the  thoughts  that  in. 

me  lay, 
Yet  the  stars  seem  calling,  calling  as  if  something  they  would 

say. 

I   have   stood  beside  old   ocean,   where  his  landward  billows 

rolled, 
At   the  sunset,  from   the  westward,   through   a  gateway  as  of 

gold, 

And  have  heard  the  mighty  voices  of  his  never  silent  waves, 
To  my  spirit  calling,  calling  from  his  caverns  and  his  caves. 

I  have  seen  the  tiny  snowdrop  pushing  upward  from  below, 
Pale  and  breathless,  yet  courageous,  through  its  prison  house 

of  snow; 
Though   I   failed  of    comprehending,    what   its   message  then 

might  be, 
Yet  the  snowdrop  calling,  calling,  seemed  a  messenger  to  me. 

So  within  my  inmost  spirit  there  are  voices  sweet  and  clear, 
That  at  times  come  singing,  singing  of  a  glory  that  is  near, 
While  a  thousand  whispered  echoes  from  without  and  from 

within, 
Evermore  are  calling,  calling  for  that  glory  to  begin. 

Thus    I    read   these    pleasant   voices,   "  with  an  aim  at    lofty 

things," 
Though  them  reachest  not  empyrean,  try,  at  least,  thy  humble 

wings!  " 
For  the  snowdrop  through   the  snow-drift,  and   the   starbeam 

and  the  sea, 
Evermore  are  singing,  singing  of  a  glory  yet  to  be! 


MUSINGS.  179 

LET   US  PRAY. 


WHAT  is  prayer  but  the  voicing  of  weakness, 
Weakness  that  comes  from  consorting  with  clay? 
What  is  faith  but  a  trust  that  in  meekness 

Holdeth  to  Him  that  is  leading  the  way? 

The  prayer  of  faith  may  be  strong  to  the  healing 

Of  whom  that  hath  faith  in  the  power  of  the  prayer. 

While  there  is  life,  then,  why  stop  our  appealing  ? 
Who  knows  the  turn  of  the  tide  to  despair? 

Man  is  the  pleader  and  God  the  bestower; 

How  shall  we  know  when  'tis  sinful  to  pray  ? 
How  can  we  tell  when  He  closes  the  door, 

Turning  His  face  from  the  pleader  away? 

Hear  that  sad  voice  in  Gethsemane's  garden; 

The  son  of  the  Fat.her  is  sentenced  to  die! 
Doth  He  not  know  He  must  take  up  His  burden! 

Doth  He  not  pray  that  the  "cup  "  may  pass  by! 

Who  that  hath  traversed  this  valley  of  bleakness, 
Asking  no  blessing — acknowledging  none: — 

Boasting  a  strength  that  is  only  a  weakness, 
Shun  him  as  one  that  'tis  safest  to  shun. 

Then  let  us  pray  with  the  morning's  caresses — 
Pray  when  the  evening  o'ershadows  the  sky — 

Pray  without  ceasing.     The  answer  that  blesses, 
Least  when  expected  may  come  from  on  high. 

I  have  a  faith  that  in  regions  about  us — 

Somewhere  about  us — or  near  or  afar, 
Is  a  realm  that  were  not  quite  a  heav'n  without  us, 

To  some  one  belov'd  that  is  waiting  us  there. 

May  it  not  be  that  when  sorrows  "beset  us, 

Half-way — sometimes — we  may  meet  in  the  air  ? 


l8o  MUSINGS. 

They  coming  down  with  a  message  to  greet  us, 
We  climbing  up  on  the  ladder  of  prayer  ? 

Aye,  let  us  pray  with  an  earnest  emotion — 

Not  by  much  speaking,  for  that  may  betray; 

Pray  for  the  grace  of  an  honest  devotion 

To  God,  and  our  neighbor,  and  work  as  we  pray, 

"  Pray  for  Jerusalem."      Pray  for  its  glory — 

E'en  for  the  land  of  our  love  and  our  pride — 

That  injustice  may  cease  from  the  page  of  its  story, 
For  whom  hath -the  martyr  and  patriot  died. 

Pray  for  the  nations;  but,  while  at  devotion. 

Ask  of  the  needs  that  may  lie  at  our  door — . 

If  the  "bread  "  that  is  cast  to  the  waves  of  the  ocean, 
Best  were  not  kept  for  the  heathen  ashore. 

Down  on  thy  knees,  to  the  earth,  oh,  my  brother, 
Plead  that  who  ruleth,  forever,  will  stay 

The  hand  that  for  gain  warreth  men  with  each  other; 
Then  take  up  the  ballot  and  work  as  you  pray. 

So  have  I  faith — though  you  may  not  believe  it — 
So  have  I  faith,  and  must  cling  to  it  still, 

To  the  prayer  of  the  heart,  unto  whom  will  receive  it, 
A  blessing  may  follow,  forever,  at  will. 


TRUTH. 


Y 


>OU  may  take  up  your  pencil  and  write 
Until  black  seemeth  white,  if  you  will; 
But  the  wrong  will  be  never  the  right, 
Though  you  whiten  with  all  your  skill. 


You  may  hide  yourself  out  from  the  daylight, 
And  fancy  the  sun  does  not  shine; 


MUSINGS.  l8l 

Though  he  reach  not  your  cobwebs  and  gray  light, 
Above  you  his  rays  are  divine. 

Men  may  gather  in  solemn  convention, 

Vote  "  nothing  new  under  the  sun;" 
But  while  they  are  trying  prevention, 

The  world  has  moved  grandly  on. 

O  man  !   with  a  spirit  immortal, 

Whose  feet  through  the  valleys  have  trod; 

On  the  mountain  of  Truth  stands  the  portal 
Which  opens  the  city  of  God. 


GOD  IN  HIS  PROVIDENCE. 


TITHE Y  tell  me  that  there  is  one  who  numbers  each 
A      And  every  hour — that  answers  prayer — 
That  bendeth  kindly  to  His  children's  call, 
Nor  letteth  one  poor  weakling  sparrow  fall 
Without  His  care. 

I  know  not,  friend,  with  you  if  it  may  be 

Worthy  or  not  a  serious  thought ! 
Yet  is  it  true — upon  an  earnest  knee— 
That  prayer  may  come,  to  such  as  thee  and  me, 
With  blessings  fraught. 

For  I  have  seen,  as  all  indeed  may  see, 

That  everywhere,  in  earth  and  air, 
Sweet,  loving  influences  that  there  be, 
Which,  as  we  ask,  in  some  good  fair  degree, 
May  answer  prayer. 

But,  should  you  ask  me  if,  in  this  to-day, 

That  far  away  yet  ever  present  One 
Whom  men  call  "God,"  will  as  they  chance  to  pray 
Turn  back  the  midday  sun, — I  only  say, 
"  I  have  not  seen  it  done." 


182  MUSINGS. 

Despite  our  teachings  it  may  yet  be  true, 

That,  after  all,  earth  may  be  quite  too  small, 
To  quite  absorb  Deific  thought,  or  hold 
The  universe-enrapt,  while  it  is  rolled 
Its  journey  through. 

A  comet,  from  some  mighty  hand,  hath  sped 

A  thousand  years;  then  reappears 
To  tell  us  of  the  vast  remoteness  where, 
Amid  majestic  worlds  of  beauty  rare, 
Its  travels  led. 

Shall  He  that  rules  such  destinies  on  high, 

With  anxious  eye,  bend  lowly  down, 
To  learn,  perchance,  if  it  be  wet  or  dry- 
On  this — to  us — however  great  and  grand, 
Small  bit  of  sand  ?    ' 

What  sad  calumniating  this,  that  holds 

"  For  purposes  His  own  "  that,  from  the  plain, 
God  doth  withhold  the  cooling,  quenching  rain, 
That  he  may  give  an  hundred  sons  of  toil, 
To  Moloch  for  a  spoil  ! 

What  logic  this  that  maketh  Him  descend 

With  power  almighty  to  our  small  events  !— 
Yet,  for  success,  must  evermore  depend, 
Upon  some  "chast'ning  " — to  the  proposed  end, — 
Of  some  harsh  "  providence  !" 

"  Yes,"  but  you  say,  that  "  once,  on  Sinai's  top, 

He  did  relent ! — of  evil  there  repent  !— 
Throw  down  the  sword,  and  at  one  pleading  prayer 
The  threatened  scourge,  His  guilty  children  spare  !" 
But,  did  He  stop, 

Or  stay  His  hand,  although,  unnumbered  prayers, 

Thus,  heavenward  went — "  God  save  our  President  ?' 
If  naught  of  these  prevailed,  to  future  years 
To  save  this  precious  life;   if  all  earth's  tears 
Unheeded  fell. 


MUSINGS.  183 

What  hope  have  I,  though  I  m$  sorrows  tell 

On  prayerful  knees,  to  every  breeze, 
For  help  divine,  my  troubles  to  dispel  ?  . 
He  was  a  nation's  hope  !  a  people's  pride  ! 
And  yet — he  died  ! 

Who  was  it  said  "  Ask,  and  ye  shall  receive  ?" 

Did  we  not  "ask,"  e'en  to  the  last  ? 
And  in  this  hour  of  horror,  as  we  grieve, 
Have  we  the  "  answer  "  that — as  some  believe — 
Was  "  for  the  best  ?" 

Who  knoweth  ?     Peace,  be  still  !   Whatever  is, 
In  some  good  sense,  may,  after  all,  be  right; 
Yet,  for  that  right,  why  plead  before  His  throne  > 
If  God  be  Lord,  and  good,  will  wrong  be  done  ? 
Still,  let  us  pray  ! 

E'en  as  the  grass  prays  to  the  morning  skies, 

With  tearful  eyes,  for  kissing  beams  of  light; 
So,  let  our  souls  above  themselves  to  rise, 
Cut  loose  their  moorings,  and  with  upward  eyes 
Face  from  this  night. 

God  and  the  nation  lives  though  heroes  die  ! 

That  Garfield  was,  all  manhood  may  be  glad: 
Glad,  that  this  soldier  who  such  marches  led, 
Taught  me  to  live  to  manly  purpose  high  ! 
Still  better,  how  to  die. 

Round  his  yet  open  grave,  with  clasping  hand, 

Let  us  record,  O  countrymen  of  mine, 
This  self  resolve,  henceforth,  that  truth  divine 
Shall,  in  the  councils  of  this  cherished  land, 
Forever  shine  ! 

For  so,  our  prayers  must  evermore  be  crowned 

From  the  within.     What  "  sparrow  "  then  may  fall, 
Or  here,  or  there, — falls  but  to  that  profound, 
Unswerving  law  alike  that  hedges  round, 
And  governs  all. 


184  MUSINGS. 

DEATH   THE   REVEALER. 


*JTLL  the  world  over  are  doubters  who  crowd  to  a  desolate 
[L  shore, 

With  the   beak   in  the  heart  of  the  raven,  and  a  croak  of  the 
"  nevermore;  " 

Who  drink  but  of  dead  sea  waters  of  bitter  unsavory  taste, 
While  the  streams  from  the  mountains  of  azure  unheeded  are 
running  to  waste. 

We  talk  and  we  chatter  of  doctrine;  but  how,  to  the  child  of 

breath, 
Shall  be  proved  beyond  peradventure  of  a  death  that  is  other 

than  death  ? 

Can  we  hope  that  will  come  to  the  mountain  our  God  with  His 

tablets  again, 
To  reveal  of  the  what  and  the   whither,  and   the  why  of  our 

being  explain  ? 

It  were  idle  to  ask  it.     Forever,  since  He  spake  to  His  prophets 

of  old, 
His  back  hath  been  turned  on  His  people,   and   His  lips  have 

been  sealed,  we  are  told. 

But  what  if  the  scribes  are  mistaken  ?  and  what,  afte,r  all,  if  we 

find 
That  we  cavil  and  grovel  and  blunder  because  we  are  wilfully 

blind  ? 


Our  world  is  a  world  of  beginnings,  from  the  weak  is  the  birth 

of  the  strong; 
In   the   seed   is   a  thought  of  a   morrow,  as  the  egg  hath  the 

germ  of  a  song. 


MUSINGS.  185 

And  where  shall  be  set  up  the  limit?  For  progression  must  ever 

be  room: 
Will  the  love  of  our  Father  desert  us  the  moment  we  enter  the 

tomb  ? 

Our  fathers  have  told  us  a  story  of  chariot  wheels  that  roll 
On  the  highways  of  God,  forever,  and  on  to  the  land  of  soul; 

And,   taking   it  all   as   a  gospel,   we  say  that  our  forefathers 

knew, 
Yet  we  scourge  out  of  court   every  witness  to  prove   them  as 

true  or  untrue  ! 

Else   here   might   I   speak   as   of    knowledge   to   you   that    so 

tenderly  mourn, 
For  a  touch  of  the  hand  of  the  vanished;  I  might  speak  of  the 

spirit's  return 

From   the   land   of    eternal  living — from  the   land   of    eternal 

noon; 
From    a    realm  that  is  brighter  and   better  than  this  that  we 

call  our  own; 

With  a  story  of  glory   and   splendor — of  mountain  and  valley 

and  stream — 
Of    castles   whose  turrets   uplifting   in    the    light   of    eternity 

gleam. 

Though  they  thrill  not   the   air  yet  the  voices  of  millions  on 

millions  untold, 
Proclaim   of    a   grave  that  is   conquered,  of  a  stone  from  the 

tomb  that  is  rolled. 

What,  then,  with  such  promise  before  us,  for   our  three  score 

of  years  and  ten, 
If  we  wrestle   for  gold   and  we  struggle  and  strive  with  our 

fellow  men  ? 

What  then  shall  it  profit,  I  pray  you,  when  'tis  whispered  about 

"he  is  dead," 
If  our  worldly  possessions  have  dwindled  to  a  mound  and  a 

stone  at  the  head  ? 


l86  MUSINGS. 

It   may  be   that   my   faith   is  ill  founded, — that  the  gates   of 

mortality  swing 
At  the  last  into   shadows  eternal,  where   death   is  forever  the 

king; 

But,  if  so,  then   I  pray   you  to  tell  me,  from  whence  are  the 

voices  I  hear, 
As  if  breaking  their  way  through  the  silence   from  a   land  of 

the  living  anear  ? 

"  Sorrtehow,"  do  you  say,  "  undiscovered,  some  mystery  out  of 

the  sky?" 
But  why  should  my  senses  deceive  me,  and  when  was  a  "law" 

but  a  lie  ? 


Oh  death!  with  thy  splendid  revealments,  oh  grave!  with  thy 

shadowed  abyss, 
Why  start  we  in  fear  at  thy  presence,  or  shrink  from  thy  proffer 

of  bliss? 

So  that  shall  thy  coming  be  gentle,  so  that  shall  be  shortened 

the  way; 
Though  thy  call  be  to-day  or  to-morrow,  I  will  ask  not  reprieve 

or  delay. 


FARTHER   LIGHT. 


PULPITS  do  not  all  the  preaching— have  not  all  the  gospel 
quite; 

Seek  them,  and   ten  thousand  fingers  point  unto  some  farther 
light. 

Shut  within  some  lowly  cabin,  looking  toward  the  setting  sun, 
One    might    think    the    world,    surrounding,   bounded  by  the 
horizon: 


MUSINGS.  187 

Yet,   of    truth,   beyond    the  vision — underneath   some  farther 

sky — 
Sunsets  turned  to  morning  splendor   on  the   eastern  summits 

lie. 

Truth  is  but  a  slow  revealer.     Destiny  hath  much  to  do 
With   the   heart   and    its   perceptions   of  the  right  and  of  the 
true. 

For,  what  will  be,  must  be,  surely,  whether  God  be  far  or  near, 
What  we  know  of  Him  amounteth  little  to  acquirements  here. 

Though  we  guess  at  other  guesses, — of  the  things  we  think  we 

know; 
Let  the  bounds  for  love  and  mercy  measure  up  the  pit  of  woe. 

After  all  the  fact  remaineth  that  who  sits  upon  the  throne, 
Will  interpret  as  He  willeth  of  His  own  unto  His  own. 


THE  SEALSKIN  SACQUE. 

0NCE,  upon  a  morning  street, 
Very  pretty,  very  sweet, 
Now  and  then,  with  arching  eyebrow,  o'er  her  shoulder  looking 

back, 

With  a  critic  eye  alert, 
For  the  trailing  of  her  skirt, 
I  saw  a  little  lady  in  a  sealskin  sacque. 

Up  the  Sunday  morning  street, 

Tripped  her  little  busy  feet, 
All  the  swifter  little  maidens,  in  their  passing,  looking  back, 

With  a  tossing  of  the  head, 

As  if  plainly  they  had  said, 
Don't  she  think  that  she  is  "stunning"  in  that  sealskin  sacque? 


1 88  MUSINGS. 

At  the  ready,  open  porch 

Of  a  fashionable  church, 
Soon  she  entered  and,  by  favor  of  the  sexton  at  her  back, 

From  a  favored  point  of  view, 

Just  to  see  what  she  would  do, 
I  watched  this  little  lady  in  the  sealskin  sacque. 

To  the  litany  and  creed, 

To  the  decalogue,  indeed 
Unto  all  did  she  responsive  and  so  reverent  answer  back, 

That,  to  give  the  credit  due, 

I  confess  it  here  to  you, 
Nothing-  wrong  could  I  discover  in  that  sealskin  sacque. 

E'en  so  far,  without  a  doubt, 

Was  she  fervent  and  devout, 

That  I  questioned  what  essential   of  the  Christian   could  she 
lack? 

For  there  were,  as  well  I  knew, 

Cynics  not  indeed  a  few 
That  would  scout  all  such  pretensions  in  a  sealskin  sacque; 

Closely  figuring  the  cost 

That  would  count  you  but  as  lost, 
All  beyond  the  plain  essentials  that  are  worn  upon  the  back; 

To  simplicity  inclined, 

That  are  pretty  sure  to  find, 
Some  lurking  little  demon  in  a  sealskin  sacque. 

And  it  cannot  be  denied 

That  the  tendency  of  pride, — 
That  which  puffeth  up  unduly  the  clod  above  the  clod, 

Is  to  handicap  the  soul 

In  its  journey  to  the  goal, 
And  to  hedge  with  many  dangers  the  pathway  that  is  trod. 

Wherewithal  that  ye  be  clad, 
Take  no  thought,  was  it  not  said, 
By  who  spake  as  never  mortal  spake,  some  centuries  aback  ?' 


MUSINGS.  189 

Lost  upon  a  dreary  wold, 
Would  the  shepherd  of  the  fold, 
Know  a  lambkin  from  a  goatling  in  a  sealskin  sacque  ? 

So  I  questioned.     But  I  thought 

Of  that  other  doctrine  taught — 

"  By  their  fruitage   ye   shall   know  them,"   set  me  moralizing 
there; 

And  I  said  where  is  the  harm  ? 

If  the  heart  be  true  and  warm, 
Is  an  angel  less  an  angel  for  the  garments  it  may  wear  ! 


Up  a  long  and  narrow  stair, 

In  the  dim  and  dismal  air 
Of  an  attic,  from  the  chapel  but  a  block  or  two  away; 

Shiv'ring  in  the  bitter  cold — 

Young  in  years — yet  very  old — 
Sick  and  starving,  on  a  pallet  a  little  maiden  lay. 

"  God  have  mercy!  '  so  she  cried, 

'*  Christ  have  mercy!  "  Open  wide 
From  the  threshold,  on  its  hinges  swing  the  attic   door  aback, 

While  from  out  the  outer  air, 

Came — in  answer  to  the  prayer — 
Closely  veiled,  our  little  maiden  of  the  sealskin  sacque. 

And  I  saw  it  proven  there, 

That  the  garments  we  may  wear, 
Of  themselves  cannot  impede  us  in  our  journey  to  the  goal, 

If  be  kept  our  worldly  pride 

All  upon  the  outer  side, 

And   the   "  sealskin  "   of    our  vaunting  be  not  worn  upon  the 
soul. 


IQO  MUSINGS. 

THE  OLD  TOWN  CLOCK. 


nNMOVED  and  calm  'mid  the  tempests  shock, 
On  the  village  hill  is  the  old  town  clock, 
Its  great  round  face  looking  kindly  down, 
Through  the  silent  hours  on  the  sleeping  town — 

Tick,  tick,  tick,  tick,— 
Watching  and  guarding  the  sleeping  town. 

Many  and  many  an  hour  have  I  lain, 

Over  and  over  and  over  again, 

Counting  the  strokes  that  have  told  the  hour 

That  hath  been,  is  not,  and  shall  be  no  more — 

One,  two,  three,  four — 
That  was,  is  not,  and  shall  be  no  more. 

Right,  left,  as  the  pendulum  swings, 
The  christening  bell  from  the  steeple  rings; 
Left,  right,  and  the  funeral  chime 
Hath  rounded  a  cycle  of  Father  Time- 
Tick,  tick,  tick,  tick, 
Hath  rounded  a  cycle  of  Father  Time. 

Who  is  there  that  doth  comprehend 

The  moment  that  cometh  to  bring  the  end  ? 

We  buy  and  sell,  and  we  sow  and  reap, 

And  the  pendulum  swingeth  to  sleep — to  sleep! 

One,  two,  three,  four — 
The  pendulum  swings  to  the  nevermore. 

And  yet,  and  yet — though  indeed  we  stand 
On  the  shining  verge  of  some  border  land, 
Where  gold  is  worthless  to  purchase  peace, 
This  one  refrain  findeth  no  surcease — 

Silver  and  gold — gold,  gold, 
Till  the  clock  runs  down,  till  the  clay  is  cold 


MUSINGS.  191 

It  is  all  a  mistake,  poor  child  of  breath, 
To  walk  the  aisles  of  this  court  of  death, 
As  if  could  never  an  ending  chime 
Re-echo  for  thee  from  the  clock  of  time — 

One,  two,  three,  four — 
With  steady  beat  from  the  clock  of  time. 

Pray,  who  is  this  with  a  kingly  crown, — 
A  courtly  train  and  a  haughty  frown  ? 
And  who  is  this  with  her  gems  aglow — 
Like  drops  of  sweat  from  another's  brow  ? 

Tick,  tick, — one,  two, — 
And  where  is  the  king  and  the  beauty  now  ? 

Mock,  spurn  as  you  may  the  "  plebeian  crowd  "- 
The  lowly  of  earth,  oh,  mortal  proud! 
Gather  thy  skirts  lest  they  be  defiled 
By  the  pleading  touch  of  some  beggar  child; 

Tick,  tick, — three,  four — 
And  the  beggar  child  is  thy  peer,  and  more. 

Up,  up  with  your  babel!  yet,  building  high,      » 
The  waters  will  cover  it,  bye  and  bye, 
When  you,  and  I,  with  no  gathered  store, 
Shall  be  like  the  beggar,  and  quite  as  poor: 

One,  two,  three,  four — 
When  the  clock  runs  down,  shall  be  quit.e  as  poor. 


AT  HIGH  ROCK. 


0H  yes,  they  have  told  you,  my  beautiful  one, 
Of  the  "  mountains  of  life  "  and  the  "  morning  sun: 
But,  child,  did  they  speak  of  the  beautiful  earth- 
As  something  that  came  of  a  nobler  birth, 
Than  the  chance  of  atoms — of  princely  worth 
As  the  cradle  of  life  for  the  farther  on  ? 


192  MUSINGS. 

It  is  well  to  talk  of  the  "  golden  gate  "- 
Of  its  world  within  and  its  high  estate; 
But  it  never  will  do  to  uplift  the  eye 
With  unbending  gaze  to  the  over-sky— 
Unmindful  of  what  may  be  nearer  by — 
Lest  we  trample  some  glory  beneath  our  feet. 

In  the  tenderest  blade  of  the  greening  sod 
Is  an  upward  growth,  that,  if  not  of  God, 
Is  a  something,  indeed,  that  would  seem  akin 
From  the  wond'rous  power  that  is  hid  within, 
The  bloom  of  the  lily  and  rose  to  win, 
From  the  quickened  earth  of    the  lowly  sod. 

The  lamb  may  sport  in  the  fields,  aglee, 
From  morning  to  night,  but  what  knows  he 
Of  the  gem  he  crops  in  the  grass  and  flower  ? 
When  the  fold  is  gained,  and  the  day  is  o'er, 
What  joy  hath  he  in  the  twilight  hour  ? 
So  his  slumber  deepens  what  careth  he  ? 

But  in  thee,  my  child,  is  a  spark  divine — 
A  something  of  life  that  is  thee,  not  thine : 
Clay  hath  no  soul,  but  the  soul  hath  clay 
That  the  current  of  years  shall  dissolve  away — 
Like  the  fading  of  night  that  reveals  the  day. 
So,  back  of  Nature,  is  that  which  tells 
Of  the  spirit  of  growth  in  the  world  that  dwells: 
That  through  the  years  hath  in  grandeur  trod 
From  the  lower  plane  to  the  upward  good — 
From  the  crude  to  the  perfect — the  spirit  of  God. 

And  so  I  said  to  the  little  men, 

And  the  little  women  that  thronged  the  glen; 

"  Ye  have  sailed  the  lake  and  among  the  trees 

Have  swung,  and  swarmed,  like  the  swarming  bees,- 

But  to  miss,  perhaps,  what  is  better  than  these — 


MUSINGS.  193 

E'en  th'  precious  gems  that  adorn  the  sod, 
As  the  signet  hand  of  the  living.  God, 
Who,  writing  his  name  upon  all  below — 
The  rocks,  and  hills,  and  the  vallies  too, — 
Would  have  us  to  read,  and  to  surely  know, — 
That  He  is  God. 

For  so,  my  child,  hath  been  writ  in  stones, 
Great  themes  of  life  who  may  read  that  runs: 
Put  off  thine  shoes,  e'en  thine  shoes  of  clay, 
And  bowed  to  dust,  at  the  altar  pray 
For  the  God  of  grace  to  illume  the  way, 
So  that,  as  climbing  against  the  sky, 
Uplifts  the  veil  from  the  bye  and  bye, 
Upon  the  mountains  of  wond'rous  light, 
Shall  echo  thy  gladness  from  height  to  height, 
With  ever  a  morning,  but  never  a  night. 


CONSOLATION. 


WIFT  from  the  bow  the  poisoned  arrow  sped 
That  laid  the  young  lad  low, 
Wrhere  summer  grasses  grow 
And  careful  feet  the  silent  acres  tread, 
Among  the  dead. 

"  The  dead  ?"     Not  so — however  it  may  seem 

To  hearts  that  break; — 

Our  lost  ones,  full  awake, 
Are  living  on;  or,  life  is  but  a  dream — 

A  cruel  dream. 

"  Yes,  'tis  our  faith.     I  grant  it  all,  my  friend— 

I  hear  the  mourner  say — 

"And  yet  with  him  away — 
And  where  ?     My  feet  must  travel  to  the  end — 

The  bitter  end." 


194  MUSINGS. 

Peace,  troubled  soul !     No  empty  words  I  speak 

Of  wise,  cold  mystery, 

Of  courteous  sympathy — 
At  fashion's  dictate,  or  for  custom's  sake 

To  such  as  thee. 

Such  words  were  mockeries.     Yet,  do  I  say  to  thee 

That,  when  death  came  to  mine, 

From  some  sweet  lip  divine 
This  promise  carne — ofttimes  fulfilled  to  me — 

That  sometime,  from  the  sea, 

The  lost  would  come  to  me. 


THIS  HERO  OF  OURS. 


TfLONG  through  the  vallies  and  out  from  the  dells, 
f-L     Is  throbbing  the  pulse  of  the  requiem  bells. 

A  nation,  bereaved,  bends  a  sorrowful  head 
O'er  the  tenantless  dust  of  its  mightiest  dead. 

A  chariot  moves  with  burthen  and  slow, 

To  the  notes  of  the  drumbeat  and  muffled  and  low. 

The  cannon's  "  good  bye  "  sounds  from  height  unto  height, 
And  the  bugle  rings  out  with  the  soldier's  good  night. 

The  pageant  is  ended.     The  tomb  hath  been  sealed, 
And  death  as  the  victor  is  holding  the  field. 


It  is  well  that  we  pause  in  the  whirl  of  our  lives, 
To  measure  the  force  of  the  current  that  drives 
Our  ship  on  its  course,  to  the  left  or  the  right, — 
Like  as  one  without  compass  yet  cleaving  the  night: 


MUSINGS.  195 

To  weigh  in  the  balance  and  judge  of  their  worth, 

By  the  standard  of  truth,  of  the  treasures  of  earth: — 

The  gold  of  ambition,  that,  tried  in  the  flame, 

Leaves  only,  perchance,  but  the  dross  of  a  shame; 

The  diamonds  of  grandeur,  the  silver  of  pride, — 

What  value,  I  pray,  to  the  men  that  have  died  ? 

Their  robes  were  of  purple,  it  may  be,  and  proud, 

But  they  laid  them  all  down  when  they  took  up  the  shroud. 

The  once  mighty  dust  that,  to-day,  at  the  head 
Of  an  army  moves  on  to  the  realms  of  the  dead, 
Is  defeated  at  last.     Its  battles  are  through: 
All  of  earth  that  it  claims  measures  six  feet  by  two. 

Yet  cities  contend  for  the  place  of  its  grave — 
This  valueless  dust  of  our  leader  so  brave; 
And  they  promise  of  granite  upreaching  the  sky, 
To  mark  the  proud  earth  where  the  ashes  may  lie. 

But  the  granite  shall  crumble,  forgetfulness  claim 
The  tomb  and  its  ashes — it  may  be  their  name; 
Yet  the  deeds  shall  live  on,  ever  blessing  our  shores, 
Of  the  soul  that  indwelt  them,  this  hero  of  ours. 


To-day,  but  a  toiler  for  scantiest  bread — 
Strange  was  the  path  that  his  destiny  led; 
To-morrow,  the  sword  of  his  country  he  swings, 
And  straightway  we  find  him  the  equal  of  Kings. 

Where  was  the  secret  ?     Pray  tell,  if  you  can, 
Other  than  this  that  God  made  him  a  man: 
That  never  was  found  in  his  soldierly  breast, 
A  place  for  a  meanness  to  rankle  or  rest. 

Proud  as  a  victor  though  often  he  rode, 
Still  for  the  vanquished  his  sympathy  flowed; 
Never  an  arrow,  that  well  could  be  spared, 
Stung  with  its  sharpness  a  breast  that  was  bared. 


[96  MUSINGS. 

Never  unkindness  was  laid  at  the  doors 
Of  this  man  of  our  Manhood — this  hero  of  ours. 
Gather  about  him,  the  blue  and  the  gray — 
Gather  about  him  this  sorrowful  day. 

Land  of  the  cotton,  the  orange  and  pine, 
Never  at  heart  but  a  lover  of  thine; 
Into  his  tomb,  as  the  ashes  descend, 
Reach  out  the  hand  as  of  brother  and  friend. 

I  would  not  o'erpraise  him,  yet  tell  me,  I  pray, 
Of  one  that  is  found  on  the  page  of  to-day, 
For  grip  on  the  right  that  knew  not  of  defeat, 
With  place  more  secure  with  the  good  and  the  great. 

With  Lincoln,  who  saved  what  the  fathers  had  won; 
With  Stanton,  who  slept  not  till  duty  was  done; 
With  Washington  e'en,  on  mortality's  shores — 
As  a  Saviour  of  men  stands  this  hero  of  ours. 


THE  TEST  FORTRUE  LIVING. 

BY  the  taste  of  the  grape  we  must  judge  of  the  vine. 
Or  lowly  it  groweth,  or  tall; 
And  so  with  our  ethics,  friend, — yours  or  mine, 
By  their  sweetness,  they  stand  or  fall. 

A  Sabbath  day  service  may  serve  you  an  end, 

As  a  step  in  the  ladder  to  heaven; 
But  you  never  will  mount  very  high,  my  friend, 

With  but  one  good  round  in  seven. 

It  is  "steady  and  true"  that  ennobles  the  man — 

That  upbuildeth  the  temple  to-day; 
And  all  may  do  something  to  further  the  plan, 

Though  each  works  in  a  different  way. 

So,  let  us  not  quarrel  about  the  road, — 

None  see  quite  around  the  bend! 
Each  in  his  own  way,  let  us  live  to  the  good, 

For  "gude  living  will  make  a  gude  end." 


MUSINGS.  197 

THE  SILK-WORM  AND    GLOW-WORM. 

0NCE  an  unpretending  silk-worm  on  a  leafy  hurdle  lay, 
When  a  gaudy  little  glow-worm  chanced  to  pass  along 
that  way. 

"Neighbor,"   said  the  haughty  beauty,    "  surely  I  could  never 

see, 
Why  so  very  plain  a  creature  should  be  suffered  here  to  be. 

"  While  upon  that  leafy  hurdle  you  are  hidden  from  the  sight, 
I  am  out  among  the  grasses  adding  beauty  to  the  night. 

"All  you  seem  to  have  to  think  of  is  to  breakfast  or  to  dine; 
I  am  thinking  but  of  glory  and  am  living  but  to  shine." 

With  the  dawn  the  silk-worm  wakened  and  she  gave  the  world 

a  boon, 
In  the  winding  sheet  about  her,  in  her  wonderful  cocoon. 

And  she  sat  within  the  palace  and   she  fluttered  on  the  throne. 
In  the  little  shining  threadlet  of  her  wonderful  cocoon. 

But  the  glow-worm's   boasted   glory   made  him  all  the  surer 

mark 
For   the   night  bird   while   his  neighbor   lay   in   safety    in   the 

dark, 

Unpretending,  yet  applauded  by  the  world  of  living  men; 
While  the  glow-worm  left  behind  him  naught  to   tell   that  he 
had  been. 

MORAL. 

Feathered  plumes  and   flashing  jewels  may  be  counted  very 

nice, 
Yet  for  what  of  joy  they  give  us  we  may  pay  too  great  a  price. 

Evermore  let  us  be  careful  how  we  taunt  the  very  least, 
Lest  the  little  one  derided  walk  before  us  to  the  feast. 


198  MUSINGS. 

JAKE  AND  JOE. 


r\UAINT  little  fellows  were  my  Jake  and  Joe, 

\J     Speaking  sometimes  much  wiser  than  they  knew 

Of  things  that  were,  or  things  that  ought  to  be;— 
As  if,  some  spirit,  wiser,  whispered  through 

The  thin  wrought  veil  of  childhood  unto  me. 

One  evening  at  my  feet  while  sitting  low, 

As  with  one  voice,  up  spake  this  Jake  and  Joe,— 

"A  story,  please!  and,  papa,  let  it  be 
One  real  true."  Old  stories  should  be  true, 

And  so  I  took  the  oldest  that  I  knew. 

Said  I,  a  father  once  so  loved  his  child 
That  he  fenced  in  a  garden  from  the  wild 

And  gave  it  him, — together  with  a  wife, 
Whom  soon,  it  seems,  a  talking  snake  beguiled, 

Into  a  raid  upon  the  "tree  of  life," 

Which  was  forbade,  though  all  the  rest  were  free; 
And  yet  the  wicked  pair  this  very  tree 

Conspired  to  rob,  by  which  they  fell  disgraced 
From  high  estate!   Since  when — as  all  agree, 

Sin,  "in  the  belly,"  hath  a  bitter  taste. 

They  say,  moreover,  that  e'en  from  the  first 
.This  father  knew  his  children  were  accursed, 

If  e'er  the  serpent  crept  within  the  gate; 
Yet,  that  he  left  the  creature  to  its  worst, 

Content  to  warn  the  sinner  of  his  fate! 

They  say, — but  here  broke  in  my  little  Jake, 
"What  for  they,  papa,  didn't  kill  the  snake?" 

"What  for  he  let  him  in  at  all  ?"  said  Joe, 
"If  he  did  not  know  what  trouble  he  would  make?" 

Children,  said  I,  be  still! — I  do  not  know. 


MUSINGS.  199 

They  say  that  when  this  loving  father  saw 
The  sad  condition  of  his  broken  law, 

Hot  indignation  fired  his  holy  wrath; 
So  from  its  scabbard,  quick  the  sabre  flew 

That  sent  the  sinner  to  eternal  death! 

They  say,  however,  that  four  thousand  years 
Within  ii  pit  of  wailing  and  of  tears, 

So  moved  upon  his  loving  soul,  that  he 
Promised  to  save,  henceforth,  who  might  agree 

That  he  himself  had  died  upon  a  tree. 

They  say, — but  here  upspake  our  little  Jake, 
"  If  he  let  in  the  mischief-making  snake," 

("And  let  him  bite  his  chilluns,  too,"  said  Joe,) 
"Why  didn't  he  die  for  all!  "     "  For  goodness  sake," 

Said  I,  "  Be  still!     I'm  sure,  I  do  not  know." 

They  say  that,  somewhere  on  this  Father's  farm 
Was  dug  a  pit,  where  by  his  righteous  arm 

To  quenchless  fire  were  cast  the  wicked  two, 
To  burn  forever!     Up  spoke  our  little  Joe, 

"  Me  don't  beleib  such  stuff  as  that,  do  you  ?" 

"  The  soul  that  sinneth,  it  shall  surely  die!  " 
There  was  the  record — not  to  teach  a  lie, 
What  could  I  say  to  little  Jake  and  Joe  ? 
Back  up  the  story  of  the  pit  of  woe, 
And  horror  chill  their  loving  hearts?  Well,  no. 

I  changed  the  subject.     Said  I,  they  "say," 
That  once  to  earth  upon  a  Christmas  day 
A  child  came  that  in  a  manger  lay, 
To  whom  their  incense  did  the  angels  bring, 
While  lowly  bending  as  before  a  king. 

And,  furthermore,  this  little  child,  they  say, 
In  after  years  did  stand  beside  the  way, 
In  meekness  clad,  all  humankind  to  bless, 
With  only  words  of  peace  and  tenderness; 
And  yet,  'tis  said,'  they  nailed  Him  to  the  cross, 


30  MUSINGS. 

To  bear  alone  the  burthen  of  the  loss, 
And,  by  His  blood,  sure  reparation  make 
To  offended  justice.     Up  spake  our  little  Jake, 
"  If  me  do  wrong  and  you  whip  brudder  Joe, 
Is  me  all  right  ?"     What  could  I  say  or  do  ? 

I  gave  it  up.      No  use,  I  plainly  saw, 

To  talk  about  the  justice  of  a  law 

That  bans  the  many  and  redeems  the  few 

To  [ake  and  Joe,  and  so  at  once  I  said, 

"  Mamma,  we'll  put  these  little  ones  to  bed." 

Where,  bending  o'er  them,  in  each  chubby  face 

I  sought  in  vain  the  "reprobate  "  to  trace, 

Whose  "skulls"  of  old  did  "pave"  the  nether  place! 

And  then  bethought  me  of  the  words  of  Joe, 

"  I  don't  beleib  such  stuff  as  that,  do  you  ?" 


A  FRAGMENT. 


TT7HERE  is  no  death.     The  twinkle  of  an  eye 
A       And  we  are  clothed  with  immortality  ! 
A  moment  and  from  waiting  have  we  passed, 
Into  life's  inner  chamber  as  a  guest, — 
Ourselves  the  same  in  all  that  was  before, 
Save  but  the  garments  that  our  spirits  wore: 
The  memoried  past,  ambition's  lofty  aim, 
Love's  friendships,  joys — forevermore  the  same. 
And  men  risk  life  for  some  poor  sordid  bliss, 
Yet  listless  sit  before  a  fact  like  this  ! 
Alas,  indeed,  that  should  such  tidings  fall 
On  stony  ears  !  That  earth  should  be  our  all, 
When,  if  we  would,  might  to  our  opened  eyes 
Be  seen  the  hosts  descending  from  the  skies, 
And  to  our  doors,  on  loving  mission  sent, 
As  came  the  strangers  to  old  Abram's  tent: 
The  loving  hosts,  the  vanished  of  our  own, 
That  walk  the  earth  and  hunger  to  be  known. 


MUSINGS.  201 

WELL    DONE. 


IT  is  not  enough  that  you  pay  in  gold 
For  his  work  what  you  may  afford, 
Yet,  from  the  toiler,  the  grace  withold 
Of  a  Idndly  and  cheering  word. 

He  hath  labored  long  and  with  honest  zeal, 

To  serve  you,  as  best  he  could: — 
Hath  guided  the  chisel,  or  forged  the  steel — 

In  danger  hath  bravely  stood! 

The  years  run  on,  and  he  still  may  toil 

At  the  forge,  or  at  your  command 
May  coax  the  fruits  from  a  grudging  soil, 

By  the  sweep  of  his  sturdy  hand. 

But  his  toil  were  sweeter,  if  could  he  know 
That,  when  should  the  task  be  done,    • 

Some  kindly  word  there  might  be  to  show 
That  success  had  been  fairly  won. 

There  is  many  a  spirit  too  proudly  strung 

To  ask  for  the  merit  all  its  own, 
That  would  roll  as  a  morsel,  sweet,  under  the  tongue 

This  verdict  of  love,  "  Well  Done." 


THE  GREAT  TO-DAY. 

TTTHROUGH  tortuous  ways  and  o'er  some  rocky  bed 
A  The  mountain  stream  is  led; — 

A  moment  more,  and  straightway  on  it  grows 
Where  meadow  grass  and  scented  clover  grows, 
Blessing  and  brightening  as  it  goes. 


)2  MUSINGS. 

Upon  the  hills  some  majesty  hath  trod; 

We  mark  the  footsteps,  and  we  say  that  God— 

Another  name  for  truth — 
With  His  great  wand  of  fruitfulness  and  growth, 

Hath  touched  the  sod. 

So  life's  great  tide  sweeps  on.     The  world  grows  old.. 

Yet,  as  the  years  unfold, 

Is  caught  fresh  glimpses,  by  the  traveled  way, 
Of  something  better  for  the  great  to-day, 

Than  could  be  claimed  for  yesterday. 

So,  what  were  yester  but  the  wild  hedge  rose, 

To-day  its  fragrance  throws, 

From  queenly  lip  that  scarce  would  deign  to  own, 
The  humble  presence  that  it  hath  outgrown, 

As  once  its  own. 

I  have  no  fellowship  with  those  who  vaunt 

The  buried  past,  or  chant 
The  rotten  hulks  of  venerable  time — 
Their  clinging  barnacles  and  covering  grime, 

As  things  sublime. 

Praise  though  we  may  the  conquerors  of  old 

In  chants  that  rolled 

Through  great  red  seas  of  conquest  and  of  blood, 
Truth  points  to-day  to  better  men  that  stood 

For  God  and  brotherhood. 

Here  is  a  piece  of  pottery:  perchance  a  vase, 

Some  relic  of  a  race 

That  lived  and  died.     You  tell  me  of  its  worth 
In  yellow  gold!     But,  of  a  later  birth, 

Are  grander  things  of  earth. 

Things  that  no  far  off  future  shall  exhume, 

From  half  forgotten  tomb, 
And  brushing  off  millennial  dust  shall  say, 
Here  is  a  glory  from  but  yesterday, 

That  cannot  pass  away. 


FIVE  WORDS  ONLY. 


TUST  a  faded  bit  of  paper, 
J      Cut  to  fancy  figures  round; 
Here  a  dove,  and  there  a  cupid, 
Resting  on  a  yellow  ground. 

In  the  centre  there's  a  picture 
Of  whom  angels  might  adore; 

•Underneath,  a  simple  sonnet — 
Only  this,  and  nothing  more. 

"  Nothing  more?"     Beyond  comparing, 
More,  and  better  this,  lang  syne, 

Written,  and  by  loving  fingers, 
"I  will  be  thy  valentine." 

Five  words  only  !     Yet  their  promise, 
Covering  all  these  after  years — 

Brought  the  wooing — brought  the  mating- 
Never  sorrow,  never  tears. 

Yesterday,  somebody's  daughter 
Brought  to  me,  of  rare  design, 

What  had  once  been  thought  a  marvel, 
Saying,  "  "Tis  my  valentine  !" 

But  to  me,  this  faded  paper, 
Treasured  from  the  long  ago, 

Is  by  far  more  full  of  beauty, 
Else  I  would  not  love  it  so. 


2O4  FANCIES. 

Five  words  only  !  Ah,  my  darling, 
It  is  but  a  simple  line; 

Yet  how  much  was  in  that  promTise, 
"  I  will  be  thy  valentine  !" 


BABY    BELLE. 

DOWN  from  the  gardens  of  love,  one  day, 
Into  a  cottage  a  cherub  strayed- 
Sweet  as  the  dew  on  the  morning  spray 
By  the  breezes  swayed. 

Eyes  that  were  blue  as  the  violets  bloom, 

Cheeks  that  were  pure  as  the  lily,  and  white 
Lips  like  the  rose  to  the  cottager's  room, 
Like  a  star  in  the  night. 

What  say  the  destinies?     Baby,  thine  hand! 

Whither  do  lines  of  thy  destiny  lead  ? 
Is  there  no  charm  from  the  mystical  land 
To  help  me  to  read  ? 

Hold!  were  it  wisdom  to  question  of  fate? 

Raiment  the  whitest  may  soil  in  the  grime- 
To  know  might  be  sorrow;  better  to  wait 
The  revealments  of  time. 

Yet  shall  the  light  of  thine  innocent  face, 
Shine  down  upon  me,  whatever  befall, 
As  a  fullest  revealment  of  beauty  and  grace 
From  memory's  wall. 

For  I  am  persuaded  that  nothing  is  lost; 

Joy  will  repeat  myself,  beauty  will  bless. 
If  we  ask,  "will  such  blessings  repay  us  their  cost  ?' 
Love  answereth,  "yes." 


FANCIES.  205 


AUTUMN. 


IT  is  autumn;   I  know  by  the  leaflets, 
Yellow,  and  crimson,  and  browned, 
Which  slowly  and  sadly  are  falling 
In  mournful  profusion  around — 
Low  whispering  their  stories  of  sadness, 
While  softly  they  carpet  the  ground. 

The  rose  and  the  myrtle  have  perished, 
And  round  me  lie  scentless  and  dead, 
And  the  warblers,  whose  carol  I  cherished, 
From  forest  and  bower  have  fled, 
Like  friends  of  life's  sunshine  who  leave  us 
When  darkness  our  skies  overspread. 

It  is  autumn;   I  know  by  the  breezes 

Which  gently,  and  balmy  and  bland, 

Now  sigh  through  the  branches  deserted, 

Of  forest  trees,  olden  and  grand; 

By  the  fruit  and  the  corn  heaps  which  cluster 

Around  at  the  farmer's  command. 

The  moor  cocks  are  hastily  winging, 

Alarmed  by  the  starting  sound 

Of  slaughtering  guns,  which  are  bringing 

Their  brothers  and  sires  to  the  ground, 

While  the  nut-hoarding  squirrels  are  springing, 

And  chattering  gaily  around. 

It  is  autumn;   I  know  by  the  sunbeams 

Now  falling  aslant  on  the  earth; 

By  the  swollen  and  leaf-thickened  streams, 

And  the  light  of  the  faggot-hit  hearth; 

By  the  voice  of  all  Nature  rejoicing 

In  plenty,  in  feasting  and  mirth. 


206  FANCIES. 

Some  say  it's  a  season  of  sadness, 

That  "  autumn  is  sombre  and  drear," 

But  to  me  it's  a  season  of  gladness, 

The  one  of  all  others  most  dear; 

The  season  of  praise  and  thanksgiving 

For  the  blessings  which  crowneth  the  year. 

Then,  oh,  when  the  leaves,  sere  and  yellow 
Of  time,  shall  my  forehead  entwine — 
When  old  age  shall  have  claimed  me  its  fellow, 
May  the  "  fruits  of  good  living"  be  mine; 
And  my  life's  latest  breeze  be  as  mellow 
And  balmy,  sweet  autumn,  as  thine. 


BARBARA    BRAY. 


IN  a  little  low  cottage,  just  over  the  way, 
Half-hidden  by  woodbine,  lives  Barbara  Bray, 
With  a  brow  that  is  furrowed,  and  head  that  is  gray; 
Full  threescore  summers  have  shed  their  bloom, 
And  threescore  winters  have  brought  their  gloom, 
Since  first  to  the  light  of  that  little  room 

Came  Barbara  Bray. 

Day  unto  day,  and  night  unto  night, — 
Walking  by  faith  as  well  as  by  sight, — 
She  seeketh  the  light,  for  the  sake  of  the  right, 
Plucking  some  thorn  from  the  pillow  of  care; 
Lifting  some  burthen  not  easy  to  bear; 
To  the  cot  or  the  palace — no  matter  where— 
Goeth  Barbara  Dray. 

A  child  of  God!  yet  her  portion  is  small 

In  the  broad  estate  and  paternal  hall, 

For  the  "eldest  brother"  hath  gotten  it  all! 


FANCIES.  207 

And  day  by  day  as  he  rideth  by 

In  his  gilded  carriage,  she  wonders  why 

That  never  he  turneth  a  kindly  eye 

On  old  Barbara  Bray. 

Patiently,  cheerfully,  all  the  same 
Turneth  the  wheel  of  the  ancient  dame, 
Stopping  never  for  'plaint  or  blame; 
What  cares  she  for  the  sordid  dance 
Of  men  at  the  shrine  of  circumstance  ? 
Gold  can  never  the  wealth  enchance 

Of  old  Barbara  Bray: 

Wealth,  that  never  can  turn  to  dust, 

Wealth  of  faith,  and  a  holy  trust 

In  Him  that  giveth  the  daily  crust; 

Toiling  away  in  the  peaceful  light 

That  shimmereth  down  from  gates  so  white, 

Cometh  there  never  unwelcome  night 

For  old  Barbara  Bray. 

Little  she  knoweth  of  doctrine;  indeed, 
"God  and  her  neighbor  "  is  all  of  her  creed; 
Short  enough,  truly,  yet  large  as  her  need. 
Dry  stalks  may  be  gathered,  and  tares,  it  may  be, 
But  God  is  the  Lord  of  the  harvest,  and  He 
Will  pay  all  His  workmen,  if  faithful  they  be, 
Saith  old  Barbara  Bray. 

Strange  that  she  should  be  toiling  alone! 
Strange,  indeed,  that  there  should  be  none 
To  share  in  the  light  of  that  old  hearthstone! 
Yet  one  there  was,  but  he  went  before 
Through  the  churchyard  gate,  and  the  marble-door; 
And  he  waiteth  above,  on  the  golden  shore, 
P"or  old  Barbara  Bray. 

Others  there  were;  but  they  faded  away, 
Some  at  the  dawn,  in  the  twilight  gray, 
And  some  in  the  pride  of  their  summer  day. 


2o8  FANCIES. 

Yet  oft,  when  the  sunset  hath  lost  its  bloom, 
And  the  shadows  take  shape  in  the  deepening  gloom, 
Sweet  voices  come  back  to  that  little  room, 
And  to  Barbara  Bray. 

And  then,  no  longer  alone,  alone, 
Old  Barbara  sits  by  her  quaint  hearthstone; 
For  the  past  with  its  treasures  is  still  her  own. 
She  dreams  of  love,  and  she  talks  with  her  mates; 
She  clasps  her  darlings  and  patiently  waits 
For  the  angel  that  cometh  to  open  the  gates 
For  old  Barbara  Bray. 

Nor  waiteth  she  long;  for  already  afar 
Through  the  gloom  of  the  night,  like  the  glow  of  a  star, 
Is  shining  the  light  of  her  homeward  car. 
Whirling  along  o'er  the  track  of  the  years, 
Down  through  the  valley  of  sorrow  and  tears, 
Out  from  the  field  of  the  harvest  it  bears 
Old  Barbara  Bray. 

A  moment,  a  breath!  and  the  journey  is  o'er! 
Her  wheel  at  the  window  is  seen  no  more; 
But  the  tear-drop  shall  fall  while  the  lowly  and  poor 
I, ay  their  garlands  of  love  at  the  friendly  door 
Of  old  Barbara  Bray. 


THE   DYING  GIRL 

MOTHER,  I'm  going  home; 
The  chill  night  winds  will  soon  moan  o'er  the  spot 
Where  these  frail  limbs;  but,  mother,  I 
Shall  hear  them  not. 

The  sweet  spring-time  will  come, 
With  budding  trees  and  flowers  all  bright  and  fair, 
And  loving  bands  shall  roam  the  hills,  but  I 
Shall  not  be  there. 


FANCIES.  2O9 

"Summer  will  come  and  go, 
And  leave  the  sere  grass  waving  o'er  my  tomb, 
And  the  gentle  flow'rs  which  love  may  scatter  there 
No  more  shall  bloom. 

But  I  am  going  home: 

The  wings  of  waiting  angels  fan  my  brow, 
And  pleasant  tales  they  whisper  of  that  land 
To  which  I  go. 

I  hear  of  lovely  vales, 

Through  which  bright  streams  of  purest  waters  shine, 
Where  radiant  forms,  with  harps  of  shining  gold, 
Are  keeping  time, 

To  songs  of  cherubim 
And  seraphim,  which  upward  ever  rise, 
Like  grateful  incense  to  the  throne  of  Him 
Who  rules  the  skies. 

Oh,  it  is  sweet  to  go 

From  earth  thus  early  in  life's  blushing  morn, 
To  leave  untasted  and  unfelt  each  woe 
And  bitter  thorns. 

Then  weep  thou  not  for  me, 

For  though  the  form  which  thou  hast  held  so  dear 
Hath  gone  and  left  thee,  like  a  blasted  tree, 
Leafless  and  sere, 

Yet  in  that  quiet  hour, 

When  gentle  stars  look  down  most  lovingly, 

And  seem  to  call  the  spirit  homeward,  then 

I'll  come  to  thee, 

And  I  will  clothe  thy  dreams 
With  the  soft  splendor  of  the  spirit  shore, 
And  whisper  thee  of  lands  where  sorrow's  streams 
Shall  flow  no  more. 

Mother,  my  hour  hath  come; 
Death  creepeth  o'er  me  like  a  gentle  spell; 
The  world  recedes;  'tis  gone — I'm  going  home; 
Mother,  farewell! 


FANCIES. 

THE  RIVER  OF  TIME. 


i. 

I  WAS  sitting  by  a  river,  that  was  flowing  onward,  ever, 
'Neath  the  green  and  golden  branches  of  the  over-arching 

trees; 

List'ning  to  the  music  gushes  of  the  early  morning  thrushes, 
In  among  the  alder  bushes  that  were  bending  to  the  breeze. 

Curiously  I  watched  the  shadows,  as  they  gathered  from  the 
meadows, 

And  retreated  up  the  mountain,  from  the  undulating  vale: — 

Half  awaking  half  a  dreaming,  suddenly  there  came  a  gleam- 
ing 

Out  upon  the  waters,  seeming,  like  the  flashing  of  a  sail. 

Ship  or  phantom?     Much   I  doubted;   so  with  eager  voice  I 

shouted, 
"  What  ho,  sailor  !  tell  me  truly,  whence  and  whither  do  you 

sail?" 

But,  as  if  all  question  spurning,  as  of  matters  unconcerning 
Mortals  merely,  unreturning  came  the  answer  to  my  hail. 

As  within  some  grim  surrounding,  all  the  hollow  air  resound- 
ing, 

Trembles  with  the  mystic  voices  that  are  seeming  near  at  hand, 

So  an  awe  upon  me  stealing,  brought  a  weird,  portentous  feel- 
ing, as  of 

Ills  about  revealing  that  were  brooding  o'er  the  land. 

II. 

The  sun  was  darkened  and  the  shadows  fell  again  upon  the 

meadows; 

The  mountain  tops  grew  heavy,  and  the  moss  was  on  the  trees; 
Cot    and     palace    quickly    crumbled;     thrones    into     oblivion 

tumbled — 
E'en  the  haughtiest  castle,  humbled,  was  as  dust  before  the 

breeze; 


FANCIES.  211 

Haughty    prelates    that     commanded    kings    and    emperors 

descended 

To  the  sepulcher,  forgotten,  with  the  glamour  of  their  day: 
Even  as  unto  the  mowers  fall  the  grasses  and  the  flowers, 
So  this  spirit  of  the  hours  levelled  all  upon  his  way. 

At  his  touch  the  fairest  maiden,  as  the. clover  honey-laden, 
Bended  to  the  staff  of  weakness,  or  sat  crooning  at  the  hearth; 
Waved  his  hand  and  sculptured  glory  faded  out  from  human 

story, 
Or  in  some  tradition  hoary  kept  the  secret  of  its  birth. 

Even  I  that  from  his  quiver  as  he  passed  me  on  the  river 
Caught   an   arrow  that   went   chilling,  thrilling  through   each 

slowing  vein; 
Found  the  snow  upon  me  drifting,  and  the  frost  around  me 

rifting, 
Till  my  soul  within  me  lifting,  broke  the  bondage  of  the  chain. 

III. 

Then  a  change  came  o'er  my  dreaming,  and  I  saw  the  river 
gleaming 

With  the  morning  that  was  passing  to  the  brightness  of  the 
day;— 

Where,  but  late,  were  desolations,  withered  hopes  and  despolia- 
tions, 

Time  with  loving  ministrations  was  upbuilding  by  the  way,— 

Higher,  better,  wider  portals  for  the  coming  in  of  mortals, 
To  reunion  with  the  Father  at  the  table  of  the  Son; 
And,  through  errors  diminution,  by  the  grandest  evolution, 
Making  more  than  restitution  for  the  evil  that  was  done. 

Even  more:   as  down  the  river,  sailing  on  and  on  forever, 
Time  revealeth  yet  more  plainly  of  a  something  yet  before; 
Though  the  finite  comprehendeth  scarcely  that  which  neve1" 

endeth, 
Sure  am  I  the  journey  tendeth  to  unfolding  evermore. 


212  FANCIES. 

For  we  listen,  never  vainly,  for  the  voices  now  that  plainly 
Do  foretell  us  of  the  grandeur  of  that  pathway  to  the  sea, 
Where  the  soul,  at  length  believing,  as  the  end  and  aim  of  living 
Marches  on  without  misgiving  to  the  life  that  is  to  be. 

E'en    the    thinner    grown    partition    that    ontbars    the    work 

elysian 
From  this  realm  of  human  shadows,  giveth  sign  of  breaking 

down; 

And  the  lost,  the  loving  hearted,  to  the  fireside  long  deserted, 
From  the  land  of  the  departed  cometh  back  unto  their  own. 

E'en  as  'mong  the  evening  watches  oft,  my  friend,  the  spiri 

catches 
Glimpses,  'mong  the  forming  shadows,  of  some  noble  presence 

near; 
From   the   realm   of   the   supernal   comes   for   thee   with   love 

paternal, 
As  to  me  with  hand  fraternal  whom  to  know  was  to  revere. 

Then,  for  these  of  earthly  pleasure  while  I  pray  that  fulles 

measure, 
Friend  of  mine,  that  surely  crowneth  who  t.hat  liveth  to  th< 

truth: 
Yielding  thou  in  spirit  never,  may  each  morning's  light  for 

ever 
Find  thee  sailing  on  the  river  of  an  everlasting  youth. 


TH'E  MAID  OF   LINDERMERE. 


LAND-LOCKED,  with  hills  upon  every  side, 
And  a  narrow  path  to  the  ocean  wide, 
On  a  northern  coast,  in  a  bygone  year, 
Was  the  beautiful  bay  of  Lindermere. 

Along  the  shores,  to  the  left  and  right, 

Were  shoaling  rocks  with  their  breakers  white, 


FANCIES.  213 

Where  many  a  craft,  having  missed  its  way, 
Went  clown  in  the  whirl  of  the  ocean  spray. 

And  so  it  came  that  a  warning  light, 
Was  steadily  hung,  on  a  stormy  night, 
From  a  crag  that  over  the  breakers  frowned, 
As  a  guiding  mark  for  the  inward  bound. 

******* 

Upon  the  shores  of  the  peaceful  bay, 
In  a  humble  cot  by  the  traveled  way, 
A  maiden  dwelt  that,  far  and  near, 
Was  known  as  the  Maid  of  Lindermere. 

Over  the  bay,  on  a  rocky  crest, 
Was  a  fisher's  cot,  like  an  eagle's  nest; 
And  underneath,  in  the  bay  below, 
Was  a  beautiful  ship  as  white  as  snow, 

That  kissed  the  wave  with  a  loving  lip: 
And  he  of  the  cot  and  he  of  the  ship 
Was  he  whom   'twas  said  had  a  title  clear 
To  the  hand  of  the  maid  of  Lindermere. 

One  hapless  morning,  the  son  and  heir 

Of  whom  that  was  known  as  the  village  squire, — 

(A  dashing  fellow,  whose  showy  ways 

Set  half  of  the  hearts  in  town  ablaze,) 

Had  caught  a  smile  from  the  little  dame 
That  fired  his  heart  with  a  tender  flame, 
And  brought  him  a  suitor  at  her  feet 
With  the  lover's  story,  old  and  sweet. 

I  think  the  maiden  was  half  in  play 
When  she  spake  of  a  hope  for  another  day; 
Yet  where  is  the  heart,  or  young  or  old, 
That  flutters  not  at  the  touch  of  gold  ?— 

Though  scarce  desired;  with  a  bird  in  hand, 
The  neighboring  bush  was  never  scanned 


214  FANCIES. 

For  brighter  plumes.      With  bended  ear 
The  sailor  heard,  from  a  thicket  near, 

The  disloyal  words.;    Across  his  path 
Had  a  serpent  ran.  '   In  righteous  wrath 
Should  he  crush  it  out  ere  with  poisoned  breath 
It  had  stung  his  soul  to  a  worse  than  death  ? 

Between  the  flames  of  a  burning  hate 
And  a  tender  love  did  his  vengeance  wait, 
Till,  at  length,  he  turned  from  the  fateful  place, 
Lest  deeds  of  blood  should  his  love  disgrace. 

And  then  he  wrote  in  a  tender  line, 
"  I  thought,  my  darling,  to  call  you   mine; 
But  love  were  selfish — ambition  mad, 
To  claim  the  hand  that  another  had; 

"  Would  cover  with  gems,  where  only  I 
Might  place  the  signet  of  poverty. 
Farewell,  farewell!   let  my  witness  be 
The  angels  above,  that  I  love  but  thee. 

"  Farewell,  farewell!     With  returning  sail, 
If  my  ship  shall  prosper  upon  the  gale, 
And  gold  is  mine,  and  thou  art  free, 
In  the  bye  and  bye  I  will  come  for  thee." 

Alas  for  the  maid!  of  her  promised  hand 
She  had  told  the  youth,  but  his  gold  and  land 
For  the  moment  dazed,  and,  half  in  play, 
She  heard  the  tempter,  nor  turned  away 

As  she  would  have  done  (and  she  saw  it  now) 
Had  her  head  been  wise  as  her  heart  was  true. 
Yet  hope  was  hers.      He  would  come,  he  said, 
And  so  by  the  sea  as  the  slow  years  sped 

She  waited  long,  but  no  inbound  sail 

Came  in,  as  of  old,  with  her  lover's  hail. 

On  the  seaward  crag,  when  the  nights  were  dark, 

She  lighted  her  lamp  as  a  guiding  mark 


FANCIES.  215 

For  her  lover's  eye.     Sometimes  she  wrote, 
In  a  tender  way,  some  plaintive  note, 
Explaining  how  she  had  not  meant  a  wrong, 
And  how  she  had  waited,  alas,   how  long! 

Then  casting  it  forth  to  the  tremulous  sea, 

She  would  sing,  "  He  will  come,  he  will  come  to  me;" 

Or  when  the  breezes  were  off  the  land 

She  would  tell  them  her  story  and  give  command 

That  they  fly  on  their  swiftest  pinions  forth, 
To  search  out  her  lover  if  on  the  earth, 
And  tell  him  how  she,  when  the  stars  are  dim, 
Had  lighted  a  lamp  on  the  crag  for  him. 

One  night  as  she  lay  in  a  troubled  dream, 
A  tempest's  crash  and  the  lightning's  gleam 
She  heard  and  saw,  while  a  ship  from  sight 
Was  whirled  and  dashed  in  the  breakers  white. 

The  vision  changed  to  a  dream  of  peace; 
Above  her  bended  a  loving  face, 
And  the  whisper  came,  "  If  thy  hand  is  free, 
To-night,  my  darling,  I  come  for  thee. 

She  looked,  and  lo!  on  the  shining  bay 
Her  lover's  ship  at  its  anchor  lay; 
And,  high  aloft,  as  against  the  sky, 
Was  floating  again  as  in  days  gone  by, 

His  hailing  flag.     On  its  wings  away 
The  soul  took  flight  from  its  beautiful  clay, 
With  the  song — as  it  cast  from  its  moorings  free, 
"  To-night,  my  laddie,  hath  come  for  me. 

;£*##*** 

The  morning  dawned  on  a  peaceful  scene; 
The  maiden  lay  with  a  face  serene, 
As  if  each  moment  of  ending  bliss 
Had  left  on  the  clay  its  full  impress. 


2l6  FANCIES. 

With  kindly  offices  for  the  dead, 
The  neighbors  came  with  a  careful  tread: 
The  sexton,  too,  with  a  friendly  spade, 
To  cover  the  dust  of  the  little  maid, 
That — so  the  parson  himself  declared, — 
Had  gone  to  the  judgment  "  well  prepared. 

Upreared  by  whom  that  had  loved  her  well- 
Howe'er  unwise,  in  the  trysting  dell, 
'Neath  sheltering  trees  is  a  marble  shaft, 
Whereon  these  words  have  been  epitaphed: 

"At  her  command, 

By  a  single  word,  was  there  gold  and  land: 
Yet  choosing  a  humbler  path  to  tread — 
E'en  that  where  love  and  her  duty  led, 

From  year  to  year 

She  lighted  the  lamps  of  Lindermere; 
Singing,  sometime,  oh  murmuring  sea, 
Sometime  my  laddie  will  come  for  me." 


BARN  BY  McKAV. 

IT  was  "  once  on  a  time,"  as  the  story  men  say, 
That  there  dwelt  in  a  cottage  that  stood  by  the  way, 
Where  a  brook  crossed  the  road,  as  it  crosses  to-day— 

Brow-furrowed  and  gray — 

A  man  that  was  known  as  old  Barney  McKay, — 
Whom  the  neighbors  called,  lovingly,  Barney  McKay. 

Just  back  from  the  road,  on  the  banks  of  a  stream 
That  over  the  rocks,  with  a  flash  and  a  gleam, 

Drove  headlong  its  team, 
Stood  a  little  old  mill  that,  though  rusty  and  browned, 

All  the  country  around 
Was  famous,  because  of  the  grists  that  were  ground 

By  its  miller,  Old  Barney  McKay, 


FANCIES.  2iy 

Now  this  miller  McKay  was  a  quaint  little  man, 

With  words  that  were  few  and  with  thoughts  that  outran 

All  the  dogmas  and  teachings  of  party  and  clan, 

Though  never,  indeed, 
Did  he  think  of  his  duty,  in  shape  of  a  creed; 

Yet  the  neighbors  declare, 
That  Barney  was  never  a  scoffer;  indeed, 
He  quarrelled  with  no  man- because  of  his  creed: 
Yet  all  things  he  questioned.     E'en  doubt,  as  he  said, 
Was  "  more  to  our  credit  than  faith  that  was  dead, 
Or  that  swallowed,  untasted,  the  doctrinal  bread." 
The  miller's  idea  of  religion  was  this, 
Not  that  dogmas  and  creeds,  in  themselves  amiss 
To  such  as  could  never  move  onward,  unless 
In  a  harness  of  words,  but  this  much  he  said, 
That  the  "  Master  had  promised  the  giver  of  bread, 
Or  the  cup  of  cold  water,  for  charity's  sake, 
That  the  deed  as  if  done  to  himself  he  would  take; 
But  nowhere  he  taught  that  the  doctrinal  letter, 
Made  a  deed  that  was  good,  e'en  the  worse  or  the  better." 

Inspired,  as  by  nature,  with  mystical  lore, 
In  the  dust  that  had  gathered,  and  thick  on  the  floor, 
Strange  symbols  he  drew  that  he  strove  to  explain— 
Of  the  problems  of  life  with  the  grinding  of  grain: 
There  were  arches  and  pillars  and  circles  and  squares, 
There  were  ladders  of  Jacob  and  mystical  stairs, 
And  the  lessons  of  all  were  that,  circled  by  love, 
And  spanned  by  the  arches  of  goodness  above; 
"  That  coin  in  my  hand,"  the  old  miller  would  say, 
"  Is  a  loan  from  my  father,  which  I  must  repay: 
And  the  child  of  his  love  that  is  sick  and  forlorn, 

Or  weary  and  worn, 
Is  the  agent  he  sendeth  to  take  up  the  loan, 

And  recover  his  own. 
Our  life  hath  two  sides— the  outer  and  inner: 


2l8  FANC1KS. 

Who  lives  to  the  one  lives  the  life  of  a  sinner, 
Who  lives  to  the  other  God  maketh  the  winner," 
Said  Old  Barney  McKay. 

In  matters  of  doctrine  he  was  wrong,  it  may  be, 
Though  with  Longface,  the  deacon,  he  tried  to  agree, 
Yet  he  cyphered  and  cyphered,  and  still  could  not  see 
How  three  could  be  one,  or  how  one  could  be  three, 
Since  even  the  deacon— as  wise  as  most  men,— 
Acknowledged  that  five  was  not  equal  to  ten. 
And,  as  for  atonement,  "we  never  should  pack," 
Said  Old  Barney,  "our  sins  on  an  innocent  back. 
For,  our  bargain  with  nature  is  this,  in  the  main, 
For  so  much  of  sin  to  take  so  much  of  pain: 
As  ever  we  go,  forever  we  pay — 
God  keepeth  no  ledger,"  said  Barney  McKay. 
That  in  all  of  his  dealings,  by  plummet  and  square, 

Walked  this  Barney  McKay: 

By  the  plummet  of  truth,  and  the  square  of  the  right, 
WTith  thoughts  that  were  clean,  and  a  faith  that  was  bright, 

Walked  the  miller,  Old  Barney  McKay. 

Strange  fancies  sometimes  may  have  crept  through  his  brain 
Indeed,  there  were  those  who  declared  it  as  plain, 
Though  sound  on  most  topics  and  right  in  the  m:iin, 
That  a  crotchet  or  two  had  slipped  into  the  brain, 

Of  Old  Barney  McKay. 

For  Barney,  somehow,  lived  ahead  of  his  time — 
For  things  of  the  present  he  cared  not  a  dime, 
Except  in  so  far  as  they  helped  him  to  climb 
The  steps  that  uplead  to  that  temple  sublime 

Whose  "  Three,  Five  and  Seven," 
Have  their  base,  so  he  said,  on  the  level  of  time, 

And  their  landing  in  heaven. 

'Twas  a  saying  of  Barney,  that  "giving  is  having," 
Or  as  sometimes  he  phrased  it,  that  "  losing  is  saving:" 
For,  said  he,"  what  I  keep  I  must  leave  here  below, 


FANCIES. 

What  I  give  I  take  with  me  wherever  I  go; 

Who  squarely  that  walked  could  not  fail  him  to  climb 

To  the  temples  of  light  by  the  ladder  of  time." 

But  a  skeptical  world  shook  a  skeptical  head 
At  the  miller's  investments  and  sneeringly  said, 

"  That  stock  will  not  pay, 
For  soon  on  the  street  will  be  begging  his  bread. 

This  Barney  McKay." 

But  the  years  came  in  and  the  years  went  out, 
And  its  great  black  arms,  so  burly  and  stout, 
From  its  home  in  the  pit,  the  wheel  reached  out, 
And  up  through  the  floors  of  the  brown  old  mill, 
Its  energies  sent,  with  a  sturdy  thrill, 
Till  the  whirling  stone,  to  the  belt  and  wheel, 
Turned  the  poor  men's  grain  into  golden  meal; 
And  often,  for  weight,  did  there  nothing  lack— 
Because  of  the  toll — in  the  homeward  sack. 

The  world  looked  on,  with  a  curious  eye, 
But  ne'er  fulfilled  was  its  prophecy; 
For  the  years  flowed  on,  as  the  years  will  flow, 
And  the  miller's  locks  grew  white  with  snow; 
His  footsteps  slackened  a  bit,  may  be, 
As  he  neared  the  shores  of  the  silent  sea; 
But  he  talked  with  God,  as  he  moved  along, 
Till  his  heart  was  brave,  as  his  soul  was  strong. 
He  caught  love  beams  in  their  earthward  flight, 
And  he  bent  them  round  in  a  sphere  of  light, 
Which  the  angels  filled  with  their  presence  bright; 
And  down  the  slope  to  the  setting  sun, 
He  scattered  his  grain,  as  they  led  him  on, 
Till,  bye  and  bye,  when  his  work  was  o'er, 
He  gathered  his  wealth  on  the  hither  shore, 
And  the  "angels  helped  him  to  ferry  it  o'er; 
But  ne'er,  to  the  last,  did  his  right  hand  know, 
What  his  left  had  done  in  this  world  below. 


219 


220  FANCIES. 

The  old  mill  stands  as  it  stood  of  yore, 

By  the  sweet  brookside;  but  its  ancient  door, 

That  ne'er  was  shut  to  the  cry  for  bread. 

The  spider  bars  with  a  single  thread. 

The  wheel,  in  the  pit,  no  more  goes  round, 

For  the  years  of  age  have  the  giant  bound; 

But  the  brave  old  walls,  defying  time, 

Stand  up,  amid  the  wreck,  sublime, 

In  the  calm  repose  of  age,  serene, 

And  the  sheltering  arms  of  the  ivy  green. 

By  the  church  yard  gate,  neath  a  marble  slab, 
Lies  the  waiting  dust  of  old  Deacon  Grabb; 
The  sculptured  lines  have  a  pious  sound, 
As  if  'twere  a  saint  that  was  under  ground; 
And  the  story  is  told  in  the  epitaph 
Of  the  tithes  he  gave,  in  the  Lord's  behalf; 
But,  between  the  lines,  if  our  eyes  are  good, 
We  read  that  he  kept  whatever  he  could, 

And  gave  when  he  must; 
And  there's  many  a  frown  and  many  a  jeer 

O'er  the  splendid  bier, 
But  there's  never  a  smile,  or  a  sorrowing  tear — 

For  the  neighbors  laugh 
At  the  story  told  in  the  epitaph. 

Afar  in  the  corner  and  down  in  the  grass, 

Where  few  but  the  poor  of  the  villagers  pass, 

Is  a  low  little  mound,  and  a  low  little  stone, 

That  I  think  you  will  know,  if  you  go  there  in  June, 

By  the  wealth  of  the  roses  that  round  it  are  thrown; 

And,  parting  the  vines,  if  you  stoop  very  near, 

And  will  scrape  off  the  mosses,  these  lines  will  appear: 

"  Here  lieth  the  body  of  Barney  McKay, 

Awaiting  no  change  but  the  change  of  decay; 

As  in  life  he  was  honest,  in  death  he  was  just, 

Giving  back  to  earth-mother,  her  measure  of  dust. 

His  religion  was  deed,  and  his  doctrine  was  use; 


FANCIES. 

And  he  prayed  for  the  widow  by  filling  her  cruse. 
Though  slender  his  purse,  yet,  in  poverty's  home, 
His  step  was  a  sunbeam  that  scattered  the  gloom. 
Tread  lightly,  then,  stranger,  and  over  the  bier 
Of  this  friend  of  the  lowly,  drop  the  meed  of  a  tear. 


THE  TWO   FACES. 


6NE  day  as  I  stood  by  the  river's  brink, 
I  saw  in  the  waters  clear, 
A  head  that  was  covered  with  golden  locks, 
And  a  face  that  was  young  and  fair. 

As  I  frowned  or  smiled,  a  smile  or  a  frown 

Spread  over  the  face  and  brow; 
I  spake,  but  no  answering  word  came  back 

From  the  mocking  lips  below. 

The  march  went  on.     In  the  after  years 

I  stopped  by  that  stream  again, 
And  bending  timidly  over  the  bank 

I  sought  for  that  face  in  vain. 

The  sky  and  the  water  were  still  the  same; 

And  there  was  an  imaged  face, 
With  something,  perhaps,  of  the  old  time  look, 

But  where  was  the  youthful  grace 

That  lighted  the  eye  with  hopefulness, 

For  a  ship  from  the  outer  sea, 
With  a  freightage  of  all  that  was  great  and  good, 

That,  sometime,  would  come  to  me  ? 

I  looked  again  in  the  waters  clear, 

And  under  the  wrinkled  face 
I  saw  that,  awaiting  and  biding  its  times 

Was  the  germ  of  a  better  grace, 


222  FANCIES. 

That  grew  into  strength  till,  as  I  looked, 

Again  to  the  shining  day, 
The  child  came  forth,  as  if  from  a  clod 

That  the  waters  had  washed  away. 

And  yet  but  as  one  that  had  missed  its  way 
On  a  wide  and  a  darkened  plain, — 

Retracing  its  steps  to  the  parting  roads — 
To  take  up  its  staff  again. 


THE  TYING  OF  THE  GREENS. 


O^TANDING    one   day    at    the    porch    of    a    pretty    village 

k3  church, 

Thus    communing    with    myself     I    said,    "  I    wonder  what  it 

means, 
With    the    Christmas   time   so   near,   that   should   nothing  yet 

appear 
In  the  way  of  preparation  for  the  tying  of  the  greens  !" 

I  remember  well  the  time,  when  the  girls  were  in  their  prime, — 
The  pretty  girls  that  still  are  'mong  our  ruling  village  queens; 
When  the  boys,  so   gallant   then,    now   among   our   husband- 
men, 
Used  to  gather  at  the  chapel  for  the  tying  of  the  greens. 

All   the   Christmas  week   before   had  we   ranged  the  country 

o'er, 
For  such  treasures  of  the  woodlands  as  our  busy  hands  could 

glean; 

Till  with  hemlock,  fur  and  pine,  and  the  pretty  running  vine, 
We  had  stocked  up  well  and  fully  for  the  tying  of  the  greens. 

What  a  fragrance  filled  the  air,  as  if  had  been  gathered  there 
All   the   genii    from    the    mountains,    breathing    in    upon    the 
scene! 


FANCIES.  223 

From    the    pulpit    to  the   porch,    in   that   staid,  old-fashioned 

church, 
What  a  ruling  of  disorder  from  the  tying  of  the  greens. 

While  among  the  people  there,  it  had  been  our  vision  clear, 
From  behind  some  tiny  leaflet  had  a  little  chap  been  seen, 
Whirling  arrows  through  the  air  at  a  loving  little  pair, 
That  were  standing  at  the  altar  and  were  tying  up  the  greens, 

Later  on,  as  hand  in  hand,  at  the  altar  did  they  stand — 
He  as  proud  as  any  monarch,  she  as  happy  as  a  queen, 
All  the  jealous  maidens  said,  with  a  tossing  of  the  head, 
"  It  is  now  the  jolly  parson  that  is  tying  up  the  green/' 

But  for  all  of  that,  to-day,  bravely  plodding  on  their  way, 
They    will    say,    "  as    for    repentance    we    know    not    what    il 

means;  " 

That  "  for  mutual  happiness  and  forevermore  "  they  bless 
The  day  they  came  together  for  the  tying  of  the  greens. 

So  as  standing  in  the  porch  of  that  little  village  church, 

I  pondered  and  I  wondered  to  myself,  "  What  could  it  mean, 

That  so  near  the  Christmas  time  there  should  be  no  gatherec 

pine, 
E'en  no  calling  from  the  belfry  to  the  tying  of  the  green. 

Ah,  but  then  came  back  the  thought,  ready  made,   that  these 

are  bought — 
"  Burning  bush  "  and  wreath  and   crosses  for  "  illumination  ' 

scenes! 

Still  I  hear  the  merry  chime  of  the  dear  old  Christmas  time, 
When  we  blended  love  with  duty  in  the  tying  of  the  greens. 


224  FANCIES. 

MY   WIFE. 


I 


HAD  m  my  heart  a  sweet  little  song, 

And  this,  as  it  ran,  was  the  theme— 
I  love  and  I  love  as  the  day  it  is  long, 
So  loving,  of  love  do  I  dream." 


One  day,  to  myself,  it  was  thus  that  I  said, 
"I  will  breathe  out  my  song  on  the  air: 

Who  knows  but  some  one  may  be  waiting  to  wed, 
Somewhere  in  the  world — somewhere  ? 

"  My  song  will  be  heard  in  the  palace,  maybe, 

Or  only  perchance  in  the  cot; 
If  one,  or  the  other,  what  matter  to  me, 

So  blessing  but  follow  my  lot  ?" 

So  I  tuned  up  rny  harp  and  I  sang  to  the  air, 

As  only  a  lover  can  sing; 
And  the  answer  that  came  was  an  answer  so  fair, 

That  I  deemed  it  a  fortunate  thing. 

E'en  so  did  it  prove;  for  I  say  this  to  you, 
That,  of  all  that  hath  blessed  me  in  life, 

That  answering  maiden  hath  proven  most  true— 
My  counsel,  my  lover — my  wife. 


FANCIES.  225 

LITTLE    THINGS. 


0H,  A   LITTLE  THING  is  the  pearly  spring, 
As  it  leaps  from  the  mountain  side, 
But  gathering  strength  as  it  flows  at  length, 

It  filleth  the  valley  wide! 
And  the  ships  that  ride  on  its  morning  tide, 

Or  sleep  on  its  evening  breast, 

May  never  dream  of  the  parent  stream, 

Far  up  on  the  mountain's  crest. 

And  a  little  thing  is  the  germ  that  springs 

From  the  nut  in  the  nursing  mold! 
But  the  years  go  by,  and  against  the  sky 

Up  looms  the  oak  tree  bold! 
And  the  birds  that  sing  'mid  its  boughs,  or  swing 

On  its  topmost  branches  high, 
May  never  know,  as  they  come  and  go, 

How  that  little  one  reached  the  sky. 

Aye!  a  little  thing  is  the  word  that  springs, 

Like  a  shaft  from  the  bended  bow! 
But  the  hearts  that  are  wrung  by  the  careless  tongue, 

On  the  earth  we  may  never  know; 
Yet,  up  in  the  sky,  in  the  by  and  by, 

We  may  find  tall  trees  have  grown 
All  along  the  road, — for  evil  or  good,— 

From  the  little  seeds  we've  sown. 


226  FANCIES. 

THEY   ARE    SEVEN. 

0VER  the  hills  to  the  southward, 
And  down  to  the  sea, 
Out  from  a  Christian  city 

I  bent  my  way, 

Through  fields  aflame  with  the  golden  rod, 
And  sweet,  as  it  were,  with  the  breath  of  God, 
One  Sabbath  day. 

Along  by  the  country  highways 

Flashed  the  sumach  red, 

Like  an  army  with  fiery  torches, 
While,  overhead, 

On  the  bending  boughs  with  chuckle  and  churr, 

Awaiting  the  opening  chestnut  burr, 
Was  the  squirrel  gray. 

Out  on  the  sloping  hillsides 

The  white  buckwheat, 

Gave  to  the  honey  makers 

Their  annual  treat; 

While  up  to  their  eyes  in  the  second  crop 

Of  timothy  grass  or  clover  cup, 

The  cattle  were  seen. 

From  nature's  uncounted  voices 

Everywhere, 
Anthems  of  labor  and  gladness 

Filled  the  air, 

With  never  a  hint  of  a  day  of  rest; 
Or,  out  of  the  seven,  that  one  was  best 

For  praise  or  prayer. 

And  yet,  as  from  rival  belfries, 

The  clamorous  tongue 

Of  the  Sabbath  bell  resounded 
The  hills  among; 


FANCIES.  227 

•Conscience,  that  something  which  seems  to  stand 
With  an  ancient  sort  of  a  whip  in  hand, 
To  goad  the  wrong, — 

Pointing  the  ten  commandments. 

Named  the  fourth, 
As  if  that  still  was  binding 

Upon  the  earth, 

Until,  for  the  moment  methonght  I  saw 
But  the  fierce  avenge,  for  his  broken  law, 

Of  an  angry  God, 

But  then  came  the  admonition, 

Somehow,  there  might 
Be  things  that  "the  fathers  "  taught  us 

Not  wholly  right, 

Since  oft,  in  the  past,  for  conscience  sake, 
Had  Truth  been  burned  at  the  martyr's  stake, 

Or  crucified. 

And  I  said,  of  the  holy  Sabbaths, 

They  are  seven; 
And  if  unto  righteous  living 

They  are  given, 

Such  paths  of  old  as  the  Master  trod, 
On  any  or  all  of  the  days  of  God, 

Must  lead  to  heaven. 

And  so  as  I  turned  me  homeward 

From  the  sea, 
Thanks  did  I  give  for  the  mercy 

That  for  me — 

As  I  might  wish— was  a  day  of  rest, 
On  which  to  sit,  as  a  welcome  guest, 
With  flock,  and  herd,  and  bird,  and  bee, 

At  the  honey  feast. 


FANCIES. 

THE  TWO   FISHERS. 


UPON    the    stocks    at    Fargo    Bay,    two    fishers,    trim    and 
staunch, 

Full-rigged,  and  ready  for  the  sea,  stood  ready  for  the  launch; 
For  months  the  wonder  of    the  town,  like  sisters  twain  they 

grew, 
Each  daily  step  by  critic  tongue  declared  a  triumph  new. 

Two  sons  old  Skipper  Tarpaulin  had  brought  up  to  the  sea: 
Bold,  hardy  fellows,  straight  and  tall  as  one  could  wish  to  see; 
And   thus  to  them  the  skipper  said,   "  Now  harkee,  lads,"  I 

say, 

"  That  I  will  build  two  gallant  ships  right  here  in  Fargo  Bay, 
And  ye  shall  hold  them  in  command,  and    as  ye  strive  to  win 
Life's  honest  wage,  so  shall  it  be,"  said  Skipper  Tarpaulin. 


The  morning  opened  bright  and   fair, — it   was   the   launching 

day— 

And  all  the  people  from  the  hills  came  flocking  to  the  Bay, 
In  rustic  best  all  gaily  clad — a  long  expectant  line, 
To  see  the  deftly  fashioned  craft  go  dashing  to  the  brine. 

All  night  the  sound  of  hammer  told  the  story  of  the  few 
Remaining  things,  when  all  is  done,  it  takes  so  long  to  do; 
Until,   at  length,  the  word  goes  forth,   "all   ready,   clear  the 

way," 

And  swift  the  Rover  and  Seagull  glide  downward  to  the  bay, 
Where  each  as  proudly  sat  the  wave,  amid   resounding  cheers, 
And  quite  at  home,  as  if  had  been  her  voyage  that  of  years. 


Along    the    quay    at    Fargo    Bay    was    hast  ning    tramp    and 

tread; 
Full  brimming  eyes  spoke  last  good  byes  that  could  not  else  be 

said. 


FANCIES.  229 

The    priceless    gifts    that    tenderness    for    many    a    day   had 

planned— 
The  kiss  of  love,  the  mother's  prayer,  the   patriarch's  blessing 

hand, 

All  came  within  the  parting  hour,  and  then  th'  unwilling  oar 
Two  score  and  ten   of  hardy   men   pulled   outward  from  the 

shore. 

Jack  Tarpaulin,  the  skipper's  son,  the  elder  of  the  twain, 
Was  he  that  took  the  Rover's  helm  to  pilot  o'er  the  main: 
Firm,  self-reliant,  bold  and  brave,  he  asked  no  "  fortune's 

gale  " 

To  bring  the  gage  he  had  not  earned,  or  fill  an  idle  sail. 
God  helps  who  help  themselves,  he  said,  and  to  the  realms  of 

snow, 
For   wage   of    oil  through   honest   toil    he   turned    his  steady 

prow. 

The  Seagull  spread  her  snowy  sail  but  on  the  fairest  breeze; 
With  easy  hand  she  dropped  her  nets  along  the  summer  seas. 
Yet  on  the  port  or  larboard  side,  however  down  she  let 
Her  meshes  fine,  no  hand  divine  brought  fishes  to  her  net. 
So  when,  at  length,  her  bootless  prow  turned  homeward  on  its 

way, 
No  higher  marked  her  water  line  than  when  she  left  the  Bay. 

"  Now,  by  my  faith,"  the  skipper  cried,  with  sorrow  overcast, 
"  Who  treads   the   Seagull's  quarter  deck  shall  sail  before  the 

mast. 
For,  whom  doth  wait   for  luck   or   fate,  to  pave  his  way  with 

flowers, 
Is  not  the  man  to  lead  the  van  in  this  rough  world  of  ours." 

******* 
Along  the  quay,  at  Fargo  Bay,  was  hastening  to  and  fro — 
The   village   tongue,   though   loosely   hung,    found   all   that  it 

could  do 
To   solve   the   mystery   of    the  hour;    the  proud   Seagull   had 

fled: 
With  owlish  eyes  each  gossip  wise  did  shake  a  knowing  head. 


230  FANCIES. 

The  ship  had  lifted  anchor  and  upon  the  outward  tide 
Had  swept  adown  the  sleeping  bay  toward  the  ocean  wide. 
" The  north,  the  north!  "  bold   Harry  cried.     "Before  me,  in 

a  dream, 
In  icy  grip  my  brother's  ship  was  'prisoned  in  the  stream. 

Nor  was  it  all  a  dream,  I  fear.     I  saw  my  brother's  form 

As  'twere  a  giant  lifted  up  in  battle  with  the  storm; 

While  each  proud  mast  bent  to  the  blast — as  reed  though  it 

had  been,— 
This  desperate  prayer  thrilled  on  the  air,   "God  save  me,  and 

my  men!  " 

The  north,  the  north!     Wide  seas  they  sailed  through  tempest 

torn  and  tossed, 

Mid  flake  and  floe  and  winter  snow,  with  lookout  for  the  lost, 
Till  one  day  came  the  stirring  cry,  "Ahoy,  there,  ship  ahoy!  " 
And  to  the  ear  came  sharp  and  clear  an  answering  shout  of 

joy. 

Now,  for  your  lives,  bold   Harry  cried,  let  every  sail  be  spread, 
And  o'er  the  wide  half  frozen  tide  the  Seagull  swiftly  sped. 
"Starboard  the  helm!     Port!     Steady,   now,"   and  through  the 

pack  and  floe, 
As    if     'twere    charmed     the    ship    unharmed     drove    on    her 

Venturous  prow; 
Till  once  again  the  sisters  twain,  though   wide  the  path  they 

4braved, 
Upon  the  tide  lay  side  by  side, — the  saviour  and  the  saved. 


On   every   shore    where    hardy   men    are    found    to    brave  the 

flood, 

Are  wives  with  but  a  single  plank  'twixt  them  and  widowhood: 
Where  tender  love  with  matchless  faith  in  tidings  yet  to  be, 
Through  summer's  sun  and  winter's  storms  sit  waiting  by  the 


FANCIES.  231 

And,  as  in  each  sea-faring  town,  so  was  it  at  the  Bay, 

With    naught  to  cheer,  each  added  year  sped  swifter  on  its 

way. 
Some    buoyant    souls,    that    mourned    no    dead,  spake   grand 

enough  and  brave, 

But  when  did  mere  philosophy  bring  comfort  from  the  grave  ? 
"Consoleth    men?"       Oh   yes,   but  then  the   chair    is    vacant 

still:— 
E'en  hearts  of  oak  have  throbbed  and  broke  above  the  sod — 

and  will. 


"A   sail,   a    sail!"    the  lookout   cries,   the  people  throng  the 

quay, 
As,  from  the  looking  headlands  born,  two  ships  come  up  the 

bay; 
The  one,  the  Rover,  bold  and  brave,  though  but  a  shattered 

wreck, 
Yet  with  the  oil  of  hardy  toil  full  loaded  to  the  deck! 

The  other,  rich  in  that  great  wealth  which  is  not  of  the  dust — 
That  coin  which  as  the  ages  roll  goes  never  to  the  rust — 
Was  she  that  'mid  the  flake  and  floe  where  midnight  shadows 

lay, 
Did  snatch  her   mate   from  danger's  gate  and    lead  her  back 

to-day. 
*  *  *  * 

Sometimes    behind    a    graceless    form  is  hid  some  power  for 

good, 

That  fails   of  what  is  called  success  (because  not  understood,) 
Until  at  length,  by  blow  or  blast,  the  treasure  long  concealed 
Beneath  the  dust  of  circumstance  is  to  the  eye  revealed. 

So  with  the  younger  Tarpaulin,  the  marvel  of  the  town, 
To  him  what  were  the  will-o'-wisps  that  men  so  hunted  down 
But  disappointment  in  the  hand,  as  on  some  dashing  shore, 
The  bubble  grasping  hand  is  left  as  empty  as  before? 


232  FANCIES. 

The  Rover's  captain  sailed  the  seas,  nor  storm  he  shunned  nor 

cold, 

Content  if  with  the  ending  cruise  he  harvested  of  gold. 
The  life  beyond!  go  to!  he  said;  a  dreamer's  idle  tale! 
Three  score  and  ten,  alas!  and  then  the  covering  of  the  vale! 

From   nature's   lips   he  little   heard   that  spoke  of    aught  but 

gold; 
Sun,  moon  and   stars  gave  light   and   heat,   what   more  could 

they  unfold  ? 

The  pearliest  shell  upon  the  beach,  evoked  no  thrill  of  joy- 
It  had  no  meat;  enough  for  him  to  spurn  the  idle  toy. 

And  yet  as  men  do  judge  of  men,  he  was  a  salt  of  earth, 
That    seasoned    many   a    winter's    tale    around    the     evening 

hearth; 

While,  to  the  last,  mere  worldlings  saw  in  Harry  but  the  sin 
Of  weak  unthrift,  and  shook  the  head,  and  croaked  the  "might 
.  have  been." 

There  comes  a  time   when  from  the  eye  this  guinea  scale  shall 

fall, 
When  through  the  night  God's  holy  light   shall   e'en  reveal  to 

all, 
How,    broader    than    the    broadest    guage     where    mammon's 

chariots  roll, — 
Upleading  to  the  sunlight,  are  the  highways  of  the  soul. 


FANCIES.  233 

A  BIRTH-DAY  RHYME. 


@NCE  there  came  a  little  maiden 
Here  to  dwell, — 
From  the  earth  or  out  of  Aidenn, 

Who  can  tell  ? 

Though  she  came  in  chill  November, 
Was  her  wardrobe  thin  and  small; 
One  pink  suit — as  I  remember — 
Covered  all. 

Gems  of  beauty,  since,  and  costly, 

Deck  her  form — 
Silken  windings  from  the  ghostly 

Shrouded  worm 
Wreathe  and  clothe  with  airy  lightness, 

Yet  the  little  soul,  I  ween, 
Radiant  shines,  through  all  the  brightness, 

From  within. 

Yielding  love  and  fond  affection 

Fullest  due;— 
.She  to  every  right  conviction, 

Firm  and  true. 
Nay,  I  would  not  praise  unduly; 

Mine  are  not  the  flatterer's  ways, 
Still,  who  liveth  well  and  truly, 

I  will  praise. 

Yet,  whatever  here  affection 

Chance  to  paint, 
Deem  not  that  life's  full  perfection 

E'er  is  meant: 
"  Human  ?"  thanks  that  she  is  "human," 

Else,  to  us,  she  had  no  birth  ! 
Else  had  missed  this  little  woman 

From  the  earth. 


234  FANCIES. 

II. 

Swiftly  on  the  years  are  speeding; 

Womanhood  is  at  the  door: — 
Round  the  mountain  upward  leading 

On  before, 

Lies  the  lover's  path  of  beauty; — 
Gallant  knights  and  castles  fair; 
Tender  songs  of  plighted  duty 
Fill  the  air. 

What  his  name,  I  cannot  tell  you, 

But  I  see  him  by  thy  side; 
And  I  hear  him  whisper  "  will  you, 

Will  you,  darling,  be  my  bride  ?" 
Sweetly  comes  the  truthful  answer 

From  the  honied  lips,  and  low, 
"  I  am  thine  as  thou  art  mine,  sir, — 

Where  thou  goest  I  will  go." 

"  Hath  he  gold,  and  mighty  holdings  ?- 

Jewelled  treasures  from  the  mine?" 
Take  no  thought  for  such  unfoldings 

So  that  love  and  peace  are  thine. 
Fortune  may  its  baubles  give  us; 

Fashion — every  vain  device  ! 
Yet  for  what  of  joy  they  leave  us, 

We  may  pay  too  great  a  price. 


MY  DREAM. 

I  HAD,  one  night,  a  dream — a  curious  dream. 
Of  things  which,  here,  I  cannot  fully  tell. 
A  child,  methought  from  far  realm  I  came, 
I  knew  not  how,  upon  the  earth  to  dwell. 


FANCIES.  235 

Hungered  and  helpless,  I  was  fully  fed- 
Empty  of  purse,  yet,  somehow,  was  I  clad; 

I  grew  apace,  and  daily  was  I  led 

O'er  pathways  bright  as  e'er  a  mortal  had. 
*  *  *  * 

Years  rolled  away.     Pleasure,  in  every  guise, 

Such  as  for  gold  the  devotee  may  gain, 
Came  at  command;  while  down,  as  from  the  skies 

Came  beauty  smiling  with  her  shining  train. 

Luxuriant  fields  my  granaries  did  fill, 

Each  autumn  time,  with  free  and  generous  store; 

My  flocks  and  herds  were  flocking  every  hill — 

Wife,  children,  friends,  what  could  I  ask  for  more  ? 
******* 

I  trod  the  earth,  I  cannot  tell  how  long — 

In  dreams  but  little  reck  we  of  the  time: 
I  only  know  that,  somehow,  came  among 

My  thinning  locks  the  snow  flake  and  the  rime. 

Around  me,  watched  impatient  by  my  hairs, 
Disordered  lay,  in  heaps,  my  worldly  store; 

While  from  my  gaze  in  outward  rank  defiled, 
Hopes,  joys,  ambitions  to  the  nevermore. 

One  day,  methought,  my  slowing  footsteps  led 

To  craggy  heights  outlooking  to  the  sea, 
And  with  half  frantic  turning  to  the  dead, 

I  sought  for  tidings  of  the  yet  to  be: 

Something  beyond-  some  fair,  outlying  land, 
Where  to  survive  the  parting  of  the  breath  ! 

"  Give  me,"  I  cried,  to  touch  one  vanished  hand, 
And  death,  to  me,  shall  nevermore  be  death." 

I  neared  the  brink,  and  looking  out  below, 
With  beckoning  hands  uprose  upon  the  deep 

Bright  myriad  forms,  and  whiter  than  the  snow; 
I  sprang  the  cliff — and  wakened  from  my  sleep. 


236  FANCIES. 

THE   BEGGAR'S  CHRISTMAS. 


i. 

PINCHED  with  hunger  and  numb  with  cold, 
Wan  and  weary,  and  strangely  old, 
A  beggar  child,  in  rags  arrayed, 
Through  the  streets  of  a  city  strayed 
One  Christmas  eve. , 

'Round  the  corners  the  drifting  snow, 
Whirling,  eddying  to  and  fro, 
Buried  the  earth  in  a  fleecy  shroud, 
As  th'  tempest  shrieked  from  cloud  to  cloud,. 
That  Christmas  eve. 

Christian  people,  with  nimble  feet, 
Hurrying  over  the  frozen  street, 
Spurned  the  little  one's  pleading  prayer, — 
Spurned  the  look  of  mute  despair 

That  the  beggar  gave! 

"  Only  a  penny,"  the  baby  said, 

"  Only  a  penny  to  buy  me  bread! 

The  haughty  daughter  of  fortune  passed^ 

Cold  and  pitiless  as  the  blast, 

That  Christmas  eve, 

Declaring  "  she  never  yet  could  see 
Why  beggarly  brats,  like  this,  should  be, 
With  whimpering  words  and  naked  feet, 
Permitted  to  walk  the  city  street, 
On  such  an  eve." 

Giving  the  beggar  a  parting  frown, 
And  gathering  up  her  trailing  gown, 
From  shop  to  shop,  for  their  dainty  sheen,. 
She  scattered  her  gold,  like  a  fairy  queen, 
That  Christmas  eve! 


FANCIKS.  237 

Then,  through  the  porch,  and  up  the  aisle 
Of  the  brilliant  church,  with  a  gracious  smile, 
She  swept  along  to  a  cushioned  pew, 
To  hear  the  story  of  old  anew, 

That  Christmas  eve: 

Of  the  Wonderful  One,  of  lowly  birth, 
Whose  head  was  pillowed  upon  the  earth: 
O'er  whom  the  beautiful  song  began, 
Of  "  peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  man," 
One  Christmas  morn. 

The  opening  chant,  through  the  gothic  pile, 
Re-echoed  and  rang  in  each  gilded  aisle;  — 
The  creed  was  said,  and  the  head  was  bowed, 
And  the  minister  prayed  to  the  critical  crowd 
That  filled  the  pews. 

The  carefully  worded  sermon  told 
Of  the  terrible  sin  of — Adam,  old: 
And  the  whip  was  cracked  o'er  the  blundering  Jews, 
But  never  it  reached  the  paying  pews, 
That  Christmas  eve! 

II. 

Homeless,  friendless,  over  the  street, 
Hurried  the  babe  with  frozen  feet; 
Everywhere  at  the  window  pane, 
Beautiful  gifts  as  ever  were  seen 
Loaded  the  trees  of  box  and  fir; 
Strange  that  there  should  be  none  for  her, 
That  Christmas  eve! 

For,  what  was  she  but  a  child  of  God  ? 
Or,  was  she  made  of  a  cheaper  clod  ? 
Else,  why,  alone,  was  she  bearing  the  rod, 

Of  hunger  and  cold  ? 
(Alas!   the  beggar  had  yet  to  learn 


238          .  FANCIES. 

That  wheresoever  her  eyes  may  turn, 
.The  greatest  of  sins  that  men  discern 
Is  the  lack  of  gold!) 

Over  the  tempests'  mad  refrain, 
Hark!  she  heareth  the  choral  strain! 
"  Peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  men, 
Christ  is  born  in  Bethlehem!  " 
Trembling,  she  enters  the  sacred  door, 
Where  never  a  beggar  went  before, 
But  the  burly  sexton,  fierce  and  stout, 
To  the  blinding  tempest  turned  her  out 
That  Christmas  eve. 

For,  what  should  the  waif  be  doing  there 
In  that  beautiful  church,  so  tall  and  fair? 
A  chapel  built  in  another  street 
Was  the  place  for  rags  and  naked  feet,— 
A  sort  of  a  steerage  passage,  meet 
For  such  as  she. 

The  service  ended,  the  grace  was  said, 
And  the  ponderous  throated  organ  led 
In  thund'rous  note,  with  clash  and  clang, 
While  the  salaried  prima  donna  sang, 
That  Christmas  eve, — 

Of  the  beggar  child  of  a  lowly  maid, 
That  once  in  a  cattle  stall  was  laid! 
But  whom  th'  attendant  angels  knew 
As  King  of  the  G entile  and  the  Jew, 
That  Christmas  day; — 

Yet  whom  was  spurned  as  was  spurned  the  Man! 
The  Pharisee  placing  Him  under  the  ban, 
As  the  modern  Pharisee  would  have  done 
That  night,  had  He  come  with  that  beggarly  one, 
In  His  ancient  garb. 


FANCIES.  239 

III; 

The  storm  went  by  and  the  sun  came  out, 
And  the  Christmas  tree  sends  many  a  shout 
From  the  sons  of  men,  and  the  daughters  fair, 
For  the  gifts  of  love  that  its  branches  bear, 
That  Christmas  morn. 

In  a  sheltered  nook,  by  the  proud  old  church, 
Was  a  heap  of  snow,  where  the  beadle's  search 
Revealed  the  babe,  that  had  dared  the  wrong, 
Outside,  to  listen  to  the  Christian  song, 
That  hallowed  eve! 

The  pitying  winds  had  found  her  there, 
And  had  covered  her  o'er  with  a  tender  care, 
Till  an  angel  came  with  a  loving  arm, 
And  bore  her  away  from  the  pelting  storm 
That  Christmas  eve. 

And  who  shall  say  that  the  beggar's  soul, 
As  it  woke  to  life  in  the  shining  goal, 
Found  not  a  tree  that  was  green  and  tall, 
Whose  gifts  for  her  were  the  best  of  all 
That  Christmas  eve  ? 

In  a  nameless  grave  lies  the  beggar's  form; 
But  it  sleeps  as  well  as  its  sister  worm, 
Whose  stately  marble,  above  its  bed 
May  lift  a  chiseled  and  costly  head, 
With  a  storied  name. 

For,  after  the  shafts  of  the  battle  are  fled, 
And  a  truce  is  called  to  bury  our  dead, 
Beggar  or  king — whatever  the  caste,— 
The  only  field  that  we  hold  at  last, 

Measures  six  by  two! 


240  FANCIES. 

MY  VILLAGE  HOME. 


O^VVEET  village,  nest'ling  'mong  the  hills, 

JO     Which  skirt  yon  crystal  stream, 

Where'er  I  roam  thy  mem'ry  fills 
My  fancy's  brightest  dream. 

Above  thee — like  a  champion  bold- 
Proud  "  Castle  Rock  "  uprears 

Against  the  west  his  rugged  crest, 
Unscathed  by  passing  years. 

And  yonder,  too,  against  the  blue 

Of  distant  northern  skies, 
"  Rock  Rimmon  "  lifts  his  frosty  prow, 

And  th'  wintry  blast  defies. 
Thy  sloping  hills,  thy  sparkling  rills, 

Thy  woods  and  fields  so  gay, — 
How  vivid  to  my  mind  they  bring 

The  hours  of  life's  young  day  ! 

Once  more  a  boy  !   I  feel  the  thrill 

Of  young  life  in  my  veins, 
As  Time  awhile  with  len'ient  hand 

Removes  his  cumb'ring  chains. 
Once  more  a  boy  !  as  free,  as  free 

As  th'  wild  gazelle  I  fly  ! 
Sorrow?  'tis  all  unknown  to  me, 

For  my  heart  is  full  of  joy. 

Around  my  form  I  feel  once  more 

Fond  loving  arms  entwine; 
And  starry  eyes,  which  I  adore, 

(raze  upward  into  mine. 
Yet  all  too  soon  the  dream  is  past, 

And  then  with  power  untold, 
Comes  back  to  me  the  sad'ning  thought 

That  I  am  growing  old. 


FANCIES.  241 

I'm  growing  old  !  my  step  grows  weak, — 

My  cheek  hath  lost  the  glow, 
Which  health  and  strength  did  once  bespeak, 

Some  thirty  years  ago. 
Yes,  I've  grown  old  !   yet,  smiling  vale, 

My  thoughts  still  turn  to  thee, 
For  'neath  thy  green  and  hallowed  sod, 

Lies  many  a  memory. 

And  one, — 'tis  of  a  little  maid, 

Our  household  joy  and  pride; 
One  cheerless  day,  she  went  away, 

Down  by  the  river's  side. 
And  this  is  why,  when  I  am  sad, 

My  thoughts  revert  to  thee; 
That  little  maid,  once  mine — now  thine, 

My  darling  "Jennie  Lee." 

Thus  while  a  dweller  'mong  thy  hills, 

My  cup  seemed  full  of  joy; 
I  drank  it  to  the  dregs,  but  found 

'Twas  not  without  alloy. 
Still  I'm  content:  for  thus  'tis  e'er 

In  this  fair  world  of  ours, 
Along  the  roughest,  darkest  road, 

We  find  the  fairest  flowers. 

Hills  of  my  childhood  !   green  old  hills  ! 

Where'er  on  earth  I  roam, 
Thou'rt  still  the  dearest  spot  to  me,— 

My  own  loved  village  home. 
And  when  at  last  my  wearied  limbs 

Must  seek  their  final  rest, 
The  wand'rer  fain  would  lay  them  down 

Upon  thy  loving  breast. 


242  FANCIES. 

EMPTY  IS  THE  COAL  BIN. 


EMPTY  is  the  coal  bin;  but  the  winter  is  not  gone  — 
The  mill   wheel  has  not   started,  as  we  hoped  it  would 

have  done: 
Saith  the  coal  men  (who  can  blame  them)  "till  shall  come  a 

better  day, 
We  shall  have  to  stop  the  credit  since  we  cannot  get  the  pay." 

Empty  is  the  coal  bin  and  the  winter  is  not  gone: 
We  stand  up  in  the  corners,  but  there's  nothing  to  be  done. 
The  garments  are  but  slender  that  the  baby  limbs  enfold: 
(rod  help  thee,  lit.tle  children,  through  the  bitter,  bitter  cold. 
#  *  *  *  *  p  * 

Empty  is  the  coal  bin.      How  many  of  us  know, 
With  that  little  spoken  sentence,  of  its  misery  and  woe  ? 
For  us  what  does  it  matter,  though  at  zero,  every  day, 
Stands  the  little  silver  column,  or  below  it,  even,  pray  ? 

Our  coal  bin  is  not  empty,  so  heap  the  glowing  grate, 
Fill  up  the  hungry  furnace  and  bless  our  better  fate; 
But,  for  empty  bins  and  barrels,  while  praying  God  to  care, 
As  the  stewards  of  this  bounty  let  us  follow  up  the  prayer. 

For  behold  !     Are  we  not  kinsmen  ?     And  if   one  shall  periled 

be 

By  midnight  conflagration  or  by  death  upon  the  sea, 
And  no    hand  be  stretched  for  saving  will  it  not  be  held  a 

blame  ? 
If  'twere  any  other  peril,  were  it  any  less  a  shame  ? 


FANCIES.  243 

A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL. 


T. 

WHEN   the   harvest   hath   been   gathered,   and   the   forest 
trees  are  bare, 
And  the  meadows  lose  their  freshness,  and  the  frost  is  in  the 

air; 
When  the  chickens  have  been  slaughtered,  and  the  strutting 

turkey  cock 

Leadeth  off,  with  empty  gobble,  his  procession  to  the  block; 
And  the  smell  is  in  the  kitchen  of  the  apple  and  the  quince, 
And  the  chopping  knife  is  busy  with  the  sausage  and  the 

mince — 

Not  by  any  sort  of  sequence,  but  because  it  so  hath  been 
All  the  years  that  I  have  wandered  in  this  wilderness  of  men — 
Then  I  know  that  for  the  favored  ones  of  fortune,  at  the  least 
Will  be  coming  Merry  Christmas  with  a  merry,  merry  feast. 

II. 

WThen  to  secret  hiding  places  do  the  little  maidens  trip, 

With  precautionary  signals  on  the  finger  and  the  lip; 

At    some    threatened    interruption,    putting    something    quick 

away, 

With  a  look  as  if  had  nothing,  there,  been  doing  all  the  day; 
When  the  sphynxes  take  possession,  even  of  the  elder  tongue, 
So  that  only  by  the  favored  is  the  secret  to  be  wrung; 
When  the  children  lie  and  listen,  underneath  the  winter  roof, 
For  the  dancing  of  the  reindeer  and  the  patter  of  its  hoof; — 
Then  I  know  that   Merry  Christmas  will  be  coming  with  its 

chime, 
And  the  fragrance  of  the  cedar  and  the  glory  of  the  pine. 

III. 

What  a  rushing  to  the  city  !     What  a  pattering  of  feet ! 
What  a  Babel  of  the  voices,  from  the  crowd  upon  the  street  ! 
How  the  shopmen  are  delighted  !     How  they  nod,  and  how 
they  wink 


244  FANCIES. 

To  the  question,  '  Will  it  please  her?"     "  Will  it  suit  him,  do 

you  think  ?" 
Hear    the    little    wife    communing — all    about    the    Christmas 

tree — 

a  I  wonder  what  my  darling  has  been  purchasing  for  me. 
Something  nice,   I'm  very  certain — quite  the  richest  of  them 

all— 
And  my  own  poor  little  trifles,  they  will  look  so  very  small  !" 

Nay,  not  so,  dear  little  woman;  when  thy  story  he  hath  learned,. 
How  by  littles  and  by  littles  was  the  purchase  money  earned, 
If  he  hath  a  heart  within  him,  he  will  tell  you,  many  fold 
More  of  value  are  your  "trifles"  than  if  only  they  were  gold; 
For  it  is  a  truth  forever  and  forever,  on  the  earth, 
That  the  only  coinage  current  that  hath  any  real  worth, 
Is  the  one  that  bears  the  image  of  the  blessed  one  above, 
Whose  sign  and  superscription  is  the  signature  of  Love. 

IV. 

Merry  Christmas  !   Blessed  Christmas  !     Let   the  glad   hosan- 

mis  ring 

On  the  morrow  from  the  belfries  at  the  coming  of  the  king: 
Let  the  banners  be  exalted,  and  around  the  altar  shrine 
Let  the  emblems  of  "  Forever"  in  their  living  beauty  twine; 
As  the  Christ  came  to  the  shepherds  in  the  holy  days  of  yore, 
So  He  cometh  to  our  dwellings  if  we  open  but  the  door; 
Aye,  he  cometh,  e'en  the  dayspring  !   and  the  gloria  from  on 

high, 
With  the  song-burst  of  hosanna  !   shall  re-echo  to  the  sky. 

But  we  must  not  be  forgetful  that  we  have  forevermore, 
With  outstretching  hands  among  us  the  humble  and  the;  poor — 
Shivering  forms  and  pallid  faces  at  the  cottage  window  pane, 
Starting  back  in  helpless  terror  at  the  beating  of  the  rain; 
Nor  forget  that,  of  all  others,  'tis  the  time  for  men  to  try 
The  strength  of  that  religion  that  they  claim  to  travel  by; 
To  solve  the  weighty  question  ere  the  pleader  shall  depart, 
If  the  heart  is  in  the  pocket — or,  the  pocket  in  the  heart. 


FANCIES.  245 

AMONG  THE   MEMORIES. 


WHERE   proud  Rock  Rimmon's  lofty  prow 
Uplifts  above  the  vale  below, 
I  stood,  one  day,  with  outward  look 
Tow'rd  river  bank  and  winding  brook, 
Where  oft  of  yore  my  feet  had  trod 
With  gamey  hook  and  fishing-rod. 
\Vith  flanking  hills  that  interlock 
Far  to  the  south  rose  Castle  Rock, 
With  lonely  pine  no  longer  crowned 
To  greet  the  trav'ler  homeward  bound. 
Far  to  the  east  lay  Scokorat 
With  stony  fields  and  pastures  that, 
As  one  might  think — if  as  of  yore — 
Might  poorer  make  who  owned  the  more. 

Westward,  with  finger  tow'rd  the  sky, 
St.  Peter's  lifted  up  on  high, 
Where  good  old  Deacon  Kinney  ran 
His  gospel  train  on  ancient  plan; 
Who — if  not  banning  quite  the  rest- 
Still  held  his  road  for  safety  best; 
E'en  claiming  apostolic  line 
To  prove  preemptive  right  divine; 
Across  the  realm  where  mortal  dwell, 
To  run  without  a  "parallel." 
Can  be  forgot  that  proudest  hour 
When  I,  within  St.  Peter's  door- 
Promoted  from  the  "  common  herd  "- 
Became  a  teacher  of  the  word, 
With  Susie  B. — dear  little  lass— 
A  member  of  my  Sabbath-class  ? 
Ah,  me!  but  I  can  see  her  now 
As  when  did  she,  with  arching  brow, 


246  FANCIES. 

Her  teacher  teach — the  cunning  elf— 
To  "love  thy  neighbor  as  thyself." 
What  then  I  taught  of  churchly  lore 
Within  that  old  St.  Peter's  door 
I  cannot  tell  you,  since,  indeed, 
I  cannot  e'en  recall  the  creed; 
Harsh  things  then  learned  of  Providence 
I've  been  unlearning  ever  since. 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  Rock 
Where  Curtis  led  his  wand 'ring  flock, 
Against  a  pine  background  of  green 
Truth's  democratic  church  was  seen — 
Despising  all  despotic  form; 
Self-poised  and  in  its  self-  hood  firm, 
Its  friendly  arms  extending  wide 
In  name  of  Him  the  Crucified. 
A  living  protest  hath  it  been 
Against  the  great  encroaching  sin 
Which  shuts  and  barricades  the  door 
That  leadeth  to  the  evermore: — 
That  makes  the  truth  to  form  the  creed, 
Not  creeds  the  truth;  e'en,  to  the  needs 
Of  growing  light — however  strange 
To  ancient  eyes — that  dares  a  change; 
Nor  bishop,  synod,  or  conclave 
E'er  asketh  what  it  must  believe; 
A  free  church  in  the  freest  land 
That  lies  beneath  creative  hand. 

Eastward,  as  turning  in  my  search, 
I  miss  a  quaint  old-fashioned  church 
Whose  paintless,  high-back  seats  were  made 
The  sport  of  every  boyish  blade; — 
With  service  end,  whose  gallery  floor, 
Was  strewed  with  birch  and  apple  core! 
Methinks  I  hear  its  lusty  prayers 
Re-echo  yet  along  the  years, 


FANCIES.  247 

Beginning  in  a  whisper  low — 
Upmounting  by  degrees  and  slow — 
Till  at  the  last,  with  thunder  tone 
They  take  by  storm  th'  eternal  throne. 

Blunt  spoken  Gilyard's  frequent  voice, 
Proclaiming  of  life's  better  choice; 
Good  Uncle  Jerrod's  solemn  strain, 
Repeating  o'er  and  o'er  again: — 
Scenes  such  as  these  my  thoughts  did  fill, 
As  looking  tow'rd  old  Chusetown  hill, 
I  wondered  (if  those  sainted  ones 
Still  keep  an  eye  upon  their  sons). 
How  doth  accord — to  spirit  gaze — 
The  temples  of  our  modern  praise  ? 
The  costly  pane — the  lofty  spire— 
The  preacher  raking  down  his  "fire!  " 
E'en  sweeping  from  perdition's  door, 
That  hideous  word  "forevermore!  " 
Or,  at  least,  when  human  sight 
Fails  to  discern  God's  purpose,  quite, 
That  rules  the  creeds  and  dogmas  out 
And  to  the  sinner  gives  the  doubt  ? 
Brave  sons  of  faith,  that  through  the  night 
Faced  ever  to  some  morning  light- 
Not  seen  but  hoped  for  to  the  end- 
Before  thy  memoried  shrines  I  bend 
To  pay  with  heart  and  tongue  and  pen, 
That  homage  due  to  honest  men. 

II. 

Yet  other  scenes  and  visions  came — 
As  from  a  pit  of  bitterest  shame — 
That  made  me  doubt,  as  there  I  stood 
In  blank  amaze,  if  God  was  God! 
I  turned  my  glass.     Along  the  vale 
A  host  of  spectred  children  pale, 
With  anguished  faces  thin  and  weird 


248  FANCIES. 

Flashed  on  the  eye  and  disappeared! 
Behind — a  bacchanalian  crowd — 
With  tottering  gait  and  grizzly  browed — 
Came  straggling  through  the  palsying  land 
From  low  saloon  and  tavern  stand — 
Men  turned  to  brutes.     And  then  I  saw, 
Beneath  the  blighting  hand  of  law, 
Farms,  that  from  sire  to  son  had  come, 
Mortaged  and  lost  in  dens  of  shame; 
Then  peeping  in  at  the  barroom  door 
Where  loitering  fools  ran  up  their  score, 
I  saw  the  curse  of  Humphreysville 
Bend  o'er  the  old  stone  tavern  till 

The  shadows  fled.     The  vale  beneath, 
The  landlord  slept  the  sleep  of  death; 
111  winds,  that  by  the  maxim  should, 
While  blighting  some,  waft  others  good, 
On  all  they  touched  brought  down  the  curse, 
Nor  could  be  told  who  fared  the  worse; — 
For  death  is  death,  what  cometh  then 
Lies  not  within  our  mortal  ken. 

As  sped  away  each  shadowy  ghost, 
Came  up  the  vale  a  bannered  host 
Regalia  clad — red,  blue  and  white; 
And  "as  the  water  drops  unite 
And  blend  in  one,"   I  heard  them  say— 
"  So  may  we  blend,  till  washed  away 
From  land  to  land,  from  main  to  main, 
Shall  be  for  aye,  rum's  hideous  stain." 
E'en  as  I  looked,  in  nook  and  glen, 
Where'er  were  found  abodes  of  men, 
The  sobered  hand,   unthrifty  late, 
Put  up  the  fence  and  hanged  the  gate. 
The  cot  took  on  a  fresh  attire; 
Unwonted  fuel  fed  the  fire; 
Into  the  attic's  refuse  bags 


FANCIES.  249 


The  children  shed  their  filthy  rags; 
And  as  they  donned  their  prouder  clothes, 
Glad  mothers  quite  forgot  their  woes; 
While  on  the  tongue  of  thankfulness — 
As  saviours  rose  the  names  of  Bliss 
And  Swift  and  Losee — passed  away — 
With  others,  yet,  that  here  to-day, 
Against  the  fiend  and  all  his  hordes, 
Still  live  to  hurl  indignant  words. 

III. 

Change  rules  the  hour.     What  was,  is  not; 
What  is,  the  morrow  hath  forgot. 

Though  true  it  be,  that  cottage  door 
Still  opens  where  it  did  of  yore, 
Yet  not  as  to  our  youthful  eyes, 
Our  ancient  home  we  recognize. 
In  weather  brown  of  chestnut  wood, 
A  story  and  a  half  it  stood — 
Plain,  unpretentious  like  the  men 
And  women  that  it  sheltered  then; 
Its  floors  were  bare,  its  chimneys  wide — 
With  generous  cuttings  well  supplied 
By  after  school-hours  evening  chore 
From  oak  or  walnut  at  the  door. 
Beneath  the  wide  moss-hanging  eaves — 
Half  hidden  'mong  the  maple  leaves — 
The  swallow  raised  her  twittering  brood, 
Its  nests  the  color  of  the  wood, 
While  chipmonk  ran  along  the  fence 
Safe — in  his  worthless  innocence — 
Unless,  perchance,  by  wanton  stone, 
Of  thoughtless  urchin  overthrown. 

Two  story  now,  the  cottage  stands, 
While  from  its  either  side  expands 
Bav  windows  whose  indwelling  flowers 


250  FANCIES. 

Vie  with  the  splendors  of  the  floors. 

No  longer  is  the  clang  of  loom 

Heard  in  the  upper  attic  room; 

No  more  the  prancing,  pattering  hoof 

Of  watery  steeds  upon  the  roof 

Lulls  us  into  half  dreamy  swoon 

On  some  dull  Sunday  afternoon — 

Afar  from  churchly  worshippers — 

Among  the  mint  and  hazel  burs. 

The  stone  wall  where  the  chipmonk  race 

Built  year  by  year  its  dwelling  place, 

Along  the  garden  line  of  yore, 

Hath  felt  the  impulse  of  the  hour, 

And  in  its  stead,  the  paling  high 

In  various  pattern,  meets  the  eye — 

As  if  to  show  that  'twere  designed 

That  use  and  beauty  should  be  joined. 

IV. 

The  train  sweeps  on.     We're  growing  old; 
E'en  as  we  speak  some  wing  doth  fold: 
Some  moment  bright  hath  passed  away 
And  th'  morrow  is  the  great  to-day. 

So,  lovely  vale,  with  yearning  eyes 

And  heart  of  tenderest  sympathies, 

Along  thy  pictured  hills  I  range, 

To  find  but  faces  new  and  strange. 

My  boyhood's  friends,  where  have  they  fled  ? 

I  listen,  but  their  welcome  tread 

Comes  not  upon  my  later  path; 

Save  here  and  there,  some  one  that  hath— 

By  dint  perchance  of  hardier  stock — 

Survived  the  spoiler's  roughest  shock. 

V. 

Somehow  it  came,  I  know  not  how, 
While  looking  on  that  vale  below 


FANCIES.  251 

That  many  a  pleasant  scene  came  back — 
Across  the  long  half-buried  track — 
Of  strolling  bands  for  serenade, 
Where  shrieking  flute  and  viol  played 
Beneath  the  great  eyed  summer  moon, 
Such  antics  both  with  time  and  tune! 

Ah,  William  H.  and  Charlie  D., 
And  Edward  F.  and  Thomas  G., 
How  is  it  friends  ?     Once  more  in  line, 
Let's  twang  the  string  for  Auld  Lang  Syne! 
Oh,  yes,  I  know,  from  years  that  rolled, 
The  flute  is  hoarse — the  string  is  old; 
Perchance  it  will  not  bear  the  strain 
Of  concert  pitch;  and  yet,  again — 
Though  forced  to  take  a  lower  key — 
Let's  try  our  old  time  ministrelsy. 

The  girls  ?     Dear  me  I  cannot  tell 

Just  now  where  may  the  creatures  dwell; 

Afar  from  earth  and  earthly  things, 

Some  well  I  know  have  taken  wings, 

Yet,  after  all,  may  gather  near, 

If  once  our  ancient  tone  they  hear; 

Come,  twang  the  strings;  Tom  draw  your  flute; 

There!  give  us  now  the  starting  note! 

******* 

Hurrah!  by  jove  we  played  it  fine, 

For  Auld  Lang  Syne — for  Auld  Lang  Syne. 


252  FANCIES. 

THE  VOYAGE  OF  LIFE. 


LONG  years  ago — to-night  they're  five  and  twenty, 
A  maiden  stood  with  me  upon  the  strand, 
Where  flattering  hope,  with  promises  in  plenty, 
Wrote  out  our  future  .in  the  golden  sand. 

Each  surging  wave,  as  it  came  dashing  leeward, 

Had  some  sweet  story  of  its  own  to  tell, 
Of  love's  fair  islands  that  were  lying  seaward, 

On  which  young  fancy  loveth  aye  to  dwell. 

Casting  our  eyes  across  the  leaping  waters, 

In  the  far  distance  flashed  a  tiny  sail; 
Now  'gainst  the  sky,  now  hidden  by  the  breakers, 

Onward  it  came,  low  bending  to  the  gale. 

Wond'ring,  we  gazed  upon  the  airy  vision, 

Which  scarcely  seemed  to  touch  the  azure  sea; 

And  much  we  questioned  what  might  be  its  mission, 
And  who  the  fearless  mariner  might  be. 

Onward  and  landward,  nearer  and  yet  nearer, 
Marking  its  white  track  o'er  the  watery  wild, 

Steady  it  came,  till  vision  getting  clearer, 
Firm  at  the  helm  we  saw  a  little  child. 

"  Now  hail,"  said  the  maiden,  so,  cheerily,  I  shouted, 

Mariner  thy  name  ?  and  to  what  port  dost  thou  sail  ? 
"Captain   Cupid,   and   to   Wedlock,"   came   reply   so   sweet   I 

doubted 
If  'twas  not  but  the  echo  of  some  spirit  of  the  gale. 

"To   Wedlock?"    I   repeated,   that   is   strange,   good    Captain 

Cupid, 

Come,  tell  me,  if  thou  can'st,  where  port  like  that  may  be  ? 
Then  up  spoke  the  blushing  maiden,  "  Why,  don't  you  know, 

you  stupid, 
'Tis  out  among  those  islands — Love's  Islands  of  the  sea." 


FANCIES.  253 

I  took  the  hint  (as  you  would),  she'd  planned  an  expedition, 

And  I  must  try  to  join  it,  that  was  plain  to  see; 
The  love  tide  seldom  waiteth,  so  at  once  I  got  permission 
To  go  with  her  a-searching  for  Love's  Islands  of  the  sea. 

"  All  aboard,"  now  said  the  captain,  so  we  walked  the  plank 

together, 

And  we  took  up  life's  great  journey  without  parley  or  delay; 
And  our  bark  has  never  foundered,  tho'  we've  had  some  heavy 

weather, 
And  the  years,  though  five  and  twenty,  find  us  still  upon  the 

way. 


INDIAN  WELL. 

TTH  !  here  it  is,  the  very  crag 

JL     That  jutteth  out  above  the  pool 

Of  limpid  waters,  sweet  and  cool, 
From  which  outbends  the  birchen  snag, 
Whereon  we  sat  that  autumn  day, 
And  talked  and  dreamed  the  hours  away. 

Twas  years  ago — I  dare  not  think 
How  many  quite;  indeed,  to-day, 
With  wrinkled  brow  and  head  of  gray, 

As  here  I  stand  upon  the  brink 
Above  the  pool,  I  only  know 
'Twas  many,  many  years  ago. 

She  was  a  maiden,  brave  and  true, 
•  Fair  as  a  fawn,  and  sweet  as  fair; 
E'en  ocean's  pearls  are  not  more  rare 

Than  such  as  she,  whom  angels  knew 
And  guarded  well,  so  aught  of  shame 
Ne'er  soiled  the  whiteness  of  her  name. 


254  FANCIES. 

And  I, — but  wherefore  should  I  name 
Myself,  except  the  tale  to  tell  ? 
Too  old  to  heed  the  magic  spell 

That  set's  the  youthful  heart  aflame, 
I  yet  confess  what  seemed  to  me 
An  angel  walked  that  day  with  me. 

E'en  now,  indeed,  when  disenthralled 
From  worldly  cark  and  care,  there  seems 
To  flit  sometimes  across  my  dreams, 

As  'twere — unbidden,  and  uncalled, 
Some  angel  form — it  may  be  hers; — 
Such  do  return  as  messengers 

Of  better  things  that  should  be  known — 
To  touch  the  cheek  with  soft  caress- 
To  whisper  words  of  tenderness — 

To  lift  each  burthen  of  our  own 

And  by  their  min'string  presence  lead 
The  pathways  that  our  feet  must  tread. 

II. 

Upon  a  rock  where  we  reclined 

With  patient  toil  some  words  were  hewn: 
I  wonder  if  the  faithful  stone 

Hath  kept  the  record  still  in  mind  ? 
Aye  !  as  I  live  !  The  very  spot  ! 
And  here  the  words,  "  Forget  me  not  !" 

And  just  below,  one  little  word 
From  out  the  mosses  I  recall: 
Six  letters — "  JENNIE"  that  is  all. 

Mine  own  hath  vanished  with  the  herd 
Of  common  names,  nor  left  a  trace 
Of  aught  but  cold  unlettered  space. 

F^or  rocks  and  men  come  to  decay, 

High  though  the  mountain  turret  climb, 
Beneath  the  blast  of  Father  Time. 


FANCIES.  255 

Sand  after  sand  must  drop  away, 
For  'tis  the  fate  of  rocks  and  men 
To  find  at  last  the  level  plain. 

Oh  mossy  crag,  and  echoing  cave  !    . 

That  hedge  about  yon  shadowy  pool; 

Tell  me  if  somewhere  'neath  the  cool 
And  dimpled  surface  of  the  wave 

Are  not  the  faces  that  I  know 

Were  mirrored  there,  so  long  ago  ? 

For  as  the  waters  wheel  and  curl 

Within  and  out  the  shadowy  cave, 

Sometimes  upon  the  limpid  wave — 
Amid  the  foaming,  mazy  whirl, — 

A  flash  reveals — I  know  not  what, 

Yet  which  enchains  me  to  the  spot. 

Aye,  as  I  gaze,  the  snowy  spray 

Takes  human  shape,  and  girlish  form; 

That  points  me  with  a  fairy  arm 
Toward  the  rock,  whereon  that  day 

She  wrote  the  words  my  chisel  cut, — 

"  Forget  me  not,"  "forget  me  not." 

Ye  sloping  banks  and  boulders  gray 

That  skirt  this  sweetly  memoried  stream, 

Oh,  tell  me,  is  it  all  a  dream  ? 
Or  comes  the  maiden  here  to-day  ? 

Hark  !  there's  a  footstep: — it  must  be  !— 

Oh,  darling,  wilt  thou  speak  to  me  ? 


256  FANCIES. 

BEAUTIFUL   LBAVES. 


@UT  in  the  fields,  one  autumn  day, 
Dreaming  the  beautiful  hours  away, 
Two  there  were  that  with  me  strayed, 
Through  the  meadow  and  through  the  glade: 
One  a  matron,  the  other  a  maid- 
Gathering  leaves. 

Beautiful  leaves  of  many  a  hue, 
Fair  as  ever  a  mortal  knew: 
Golden  yellow  and  russet  brown, 
Bits  of  flame  from  the  maple  crown, 
Softy,  silently  shimmering  down- 
Beautiful  leaves. 

Round  and  round,  with  many  a  turn, 
Under  the  fringe  of  feather  fern; 
In  and  out  of  their  cool  retreat, 
Whirled  the  waters,  clear  and  sweet, 
Bearing  their  burthens  to  our  feet — 
Of  beautiful  leaves. 

Time  was  when,  in  the  April  days, 
Under  the  soft  and  nurturing  rays? 
Ere  the  buttercups  did  appear, 
First  were  they  to  give  us  cheer, 
Clothing  the  nakedness  of  the  year 
With  beautiful  leaves: 

Leaves  that  never  deserted  the  bough 
Till  their  juices  ceased  to  flow; 
Till  they  had  gathered  the  color  and  glow 
Of  ripened  age;  then,  duty  done, 
Under  the  mild  October  sun, 

Fell  the  beautiful  leaves. 

So  we  gathered  and  bore  them  away, 
Children  of  light,  for  another  day; 


FANCIES.  257 

And,  as  cheerily  home  we  strayed, 

Through  the  meadow  and  through  the  glade, 

I,  with  the  matron  and  the  maid — 

With  our  beautiful  leaves. 

I  thought  of  the  autumn  days  to  come, 
When  all  must  travel  the  journey  home; 
And  silently  in  my  heart  I  prayed, 
That  ever,  this  matron  and  this  maid, 
Might  be,  in  the  glory  of  life  arrayed, 
Like  the  beautiful  leaves. 

Travelling  down  the  realms  of  shade, 
Not  as  those  that  are  sore  afraid, 
But  like  one  with  never  a  trace 
Of  naught  but  cheerfulness  on  the  face, 
Hastening  home  at  the  end  of  the  race, 
With  beautiful  leaves. 

Written  all  over  with  dutiful  deeds 
For  humanity's  suffering  needs, 
Bearing  the  record  of  useful  lives, 
Faithful  daughters  and  loving  wives, 
Summing  the  grain  of  their  harvested  sheaves, 
On  the  beautiful  leaves. 


OLD  AND  NEW  YEAR. 


TTTHE  old  year  out,  the  new  year  in;— 
L          The  sweeping  hours  go  by;— 
I  tremble  at  the  ticking  clock— 

I  cannot  tell  you  why; 

Tick,  tick,  tick,  tick, 

I  cannot  tell  you  why; 
For  though  with  every  pulse  and  swing, 

My  castle  wall  may  rock, 


258  [  AXC1ES. 

Yet  what  with  me  hath  that  to  do 

Oh  tireless,  busy  clock  ? 
*  True  every  step  is  one  the  less 

Adown  the  steep  incline; 
But  what  to  me,  oh  busy  clock  ? 
Eternity  is  mine. 

I  sit  within  my  castle  wall; 

The  midnight  train  is  due: 
Hark!  clear  the  track!  the  whistle  shrieks,. 

Behold,  I  bring  the  new: — 
And  hill  and  dale  re-echo  back, 

Behold  I  bring  the  new! 
The  old  year  out,  the  good  it  brought 

Is  ours  forevermore! 
The  new  year  in,  thrice  happy  he 

Who  addeth  to  the  store. 
And  though  the  grim,  remorseless  clock 

Marks  off  th'  expiring  hours 
Till  e'en  shall  come  three  score  and  ten, 
Eternity  is  ours. 

The  old  year  out,  the  new  year  in; 

Within  my  castle  wall, 
I  patient  wait,  or  soon  or  late, 

The  hour  that  comes  to  all. 
I  will  not  fear  if  but  each  year 

Good  seed  hath  fairly  sown, 
With  silver  hairs,  that  choking  tares 

Will  rob  me  of  mine  own; 
That  soon  or  late 

I  shall  not  reap  mine  own. 


FANCIES.  259 

THE  TOWN  ON  THE  HILL. 


TITHERE'S  a  town   on  the   hill  where   the   streets  are   o'er- 
A       grown 
With  weeds  that  neglect  and  the  breezes  have  sown: — 

Where  the  houses  are  thatched  with  the  grass  and  the  flowers, 
And  the  minutes,  within  are  as  long  as  the  hours  :— 

Where  the  hearthstone  hath  never  a  spark  or  a  flame, 
And  night  unto  night  is  forever  the  same. 

Of  the  people  that  dwell  in  this  town  on  the  hill, 
It  is  little  I  know  and  but  little  can  tell: 

This  only,  in  fact,  from  the  region  about, 

They  are  seen  to  go  in,  but  they  never  come  out. 

Yet  a  faith  that  is  more  than  a  faith,  Iv'e  thought, 
Sweet  faces,  oft  times,  to  my  vision  hath  brought 

Of  the  dear  ones  that  seem  to  be  loving  us  still, 
Though  they  went  from  our  sight  at  the  town  on  the  hill. 

The  gates  of  this  city — so  white  and  so  tall, 
Are  open  for  any — are  open  for  all: 

For  pride  hath  no  place  with  the  people  who  dwell 
In  the  echoless  halls  of  this  town  on  the  hill; 

Where  the  soldier  that  enters,  must  lay  down  his  sword, 
And  the  miser  no  longer  his  treasure  can  hoard: 

For  the  sword  and  the  treasure  goes  ever  to  rust, 
In  this  empire  of  peace,  in  this  realm  of  the  dust. 

"Threescore  and  ten  ?"     Oh,  yes,  but  they  pass — 
The  swift  mounted  years — like  a  flame  in  the  grass, 

That  rides  at  the  front  on  the  whirl  of  the  wind, 
To  leave  but  the  wreck  of  some  glory  behind  ! 


260  FANCIES. 

There  is  ever  a  house  in  this  town  on  the  hill, 
For  the  people  below  in  the  village  to  fill: — 

A  tick  of  the  clock,  and  the  sound  of  their  feet, 
Is  lost  in  the  depths  of  its  silent  retreat. 

Is  it  strange  that  I  ask  if  this  city  of  death 

Hath  a  tomb  for  the  thought,  as  it  hath  for  the  breath  ? — 

If  this  living  and  loving  and  hoping  must  be, 
As  a  ship  that  is  lost  in  the  depths  of  the  sea  ? 

But  the  answer  I  get  in  these  moments  of  gloom, 
Is  the  "  dust  unto  dust "  at  the  mouth  of  the  tomb  ! 

And  I  shout  in  my  anguish — defiant  of  God, 
"  As  I  live  let  me  die  as  becometh  a  clod  !" 

One  day,  I  stood  close  to  the  portal,  alas  ! 
As  it  opened,  a  while,  for  my  darling  to  pass; 

I  thought  to  go  in  but  the  warder  said  "  Nay," 
The  time  is  not  yet;  but  I  caught,  far  away, 

As  I  peered  through  the  shadows  a  glimmer  of  light — 
As  it  were  at  the  end  of  some  cave  of  the  night; 

And  I  heard  a  sweet  strain,  as  of  triumph  and  song, 
That  rippled  the  depths  of  that  cavern  along  ! 

Which  I  took  for  a  sign  that  despite  of  my  fears, 
E'en  thus  it  would  prove  at  the  end  of  the  years: — 

That  a  star  beam  of  hope  yet  would  come  through  the  gloom,. 
To  lead  and  to  guide  through  the  night  of  the  tomb. 

With  courage  renewed,  then,  I  took  up  my  staff, 
And  the  ages  of  darkness  I  met  with  a  laugh  ! 

'    And  I  said  to  misfortune,  ha  !  ha  !  but  the  ill 
Of  thy  shafts  cannot  reach  to  the  town  on  the  hill. 


FANCIES.  261 

BEAVER   BROOK. 


T. 

U7H ROUGH  a  valley  of  peace,  in  our  latter  day, 
A       With  laugh  and  with  song,  as  in  merry  play, 
A  beautiful  streamlet  pursued  its  way 

From  nook  to  nook, 
Where  the  fisher  delighted  to  cast  his  hook, 

For  many  a  year 

Known  far  and  near 
In  the  country  about  as  Beaver  brook. 

II. 

The  winter  was  past  and  the  spring  had  corne 
With  the  greening  grass  to  the  cottage  home, 
While  down  the  valley,  its  galloping  team, 
On  its  peaceful  way,  drove  the  tiny  stream, 
Now  stopping  a  while  by  the  way,  at  length, 
To  turn  some  mill  with  a  gathered  strength — 

Some  mystic  wheel, 
For  the  transmutation  of  mind  to  meal. 

To  this,  our  land, 
If  heaven  had  sent,  with  a  lavish  hand 

Of  hope  and  cheer, 
One  might  have  hoped  to  have  found  it  here. 

III. 

A  rural  nit  that  had  felt,  no  doubt, 
The  stinging  shot  of  some  gunning  lout 

Of  a  burgher  stout, 

With  a  joyful  look 

At  the  swollen  brook, 

On  that  Wednesday  morn  from  his  door  looked  out, 
And  thus  to  himself  he  spake:  said  he, 
Aha!  aha!   but  these  folks  below — 
So  strong  in  their  strength,  I  will  quickly  show 
How  a  simple  rat,  though  but  weak  and  small, 
With  a  deluge  of  waters  can  sweep  them  all 

Into  the  sea. 


262  FANCIES. 

IV. 

To  the  lake  above,  then,  he  sallied  forth, 

And  he  sapped  and  mined  through  the  bank  of  earth 

That  barred  the  waters,  till  round  the  wall 

They  whirled  and  whirled  to  its  final  fall; 

And  the  great  mad  stream,  as  in  mighty  wrath, 

Through  that  smiling  vale  left  a  desert  path. 

With  the  thunder  peal  and  the  lightning  flash, 

On  the  startled  ear  came  the  roar  and  crash 

Of  rushing  waters  to  men  below, 

That  told  in  a  moment,  a  tale  of  woe — 

That  bore  away  as  its  ghastly  spoil, 

The  fruitful  gain  of  their  years  of  toil. 

Onward  and  downward  the  waters  hurl, 

Dashing  and  crashing,  they  wheel  and  whirl, 

While  floating  rocks  and  uprooted  trees 

Are  tossed,  like  feathers,  before  the  breeze, 

And  amid  the  roar 
Are  scattered  in  fragments  along  the  shore. 

V. 

For  greening  lawns,  upon  every  hand 
The  waters  leave  but  of  mud  and  sand. 
Fortunes  are  wrecked,  and  the  homes  of  pride 
Are  scarred  and  marred  by  the  angry  tide. 
But  amid  it  all,  with  a  binding  force, 
Comes  the  thankful  thought  that  it  was  no  worse, — 

To  the  cottage  door 
That  the  flood  came  not  at  the  midnight  hour. 

VI. 

Through  a  valley  of  peace  to  a  later  day, 
Still  laughing  along  as  in  merry  play, 
That  beautiful  streamlet  pursues  its  way, 

From  nook  to  nook, 
Where  the  fisher  may  sport  with  his  morning  hook; 

Yet  for  many  a  year 

Shall  the  people  hear 
Of  the  terrible  pranks  of  Beaver  brook. 


FANCIES.  2 

THE  PICTURE  UPON  THE  WALL. 


TITHE  RE  are  two  little  lambkins  infolded— 
A  I  need  not,  I'm  sure,  tell  you  where; 

Enough  that  the  lambkins  are  folded 
And  guarded  with  tenderest  care. 

From  a  picture  the  wall  hath  in  keeping, 
A  mother  looks  pleadingly  down, 

With  her  great  loving  eyes,  that,  unsleeping, 
Keepeth  watch,  as  it  were,  o'er  her  own. 

And  I  see  her  again  as  I  knew  her,— 
A  bright  little  maiden  and  fair, — 

Ere  the  breath  of  the  night  wind  that  slew  her, 
Had  dampened  the  braids  of  her  hair. 

There's  a  triumph  of  love,  and  a  bridal; 

A  cottage,  with  love  on  the  throne; 
A  proud  little  mother — the  idol 

Of  him  that  had  made  her  his  own. 

There  are  years  that  flow  on,  like  a  river, 

Unruffled  by  tempest  or  breeze; 
There  are  hands  that  upbuild — to  receive  her — 

The  halls  of  ambition  to  please. 
#  #  *  * 

And  then  comes  the  night  of  our  sadness; 

There's  a  new  step  that's  heard  in  the  hall; 
A  chime,  and' a  wedding  of  gladness; 

The  great  eyes  look  down  from  the  wall. 

While  a  low  voice  goes  upward,  and  pleading 
With  Mercy,  before  the  great  throne, 

That  whom  shall  the  lambkins  be  leading, 
Will  help  her  to  watch  o'er  her  own; — 

So  that— as  their  feet  shall  move  onward, 
Kind  motherhood's  face  to  recall— 

As  the  lambkins  grow  upward  and  sunward, 
Two  pictures  shall  hang  on  the  wall. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


NEW   ENGLAND. 


NEW  ENGLAND,  thou  soul  of  the  nation!  its  conscience, 
its  keeper,  the  seal — 

On    the   scroll  of    its   honor,    forever,    in    our    hearts   at    thy 
presence  we  kneel! 

With    thy    Longfellow,    Whittier    and    Lowell — the    godhead 

triune  of  thy  song! 
With   thy   Garrison,  Phillips  and   Sumner — the  chain-breaking 

foe  of  the  wrong! 

With  thy  Webster,  and   Choate,  and  Parker,  thy  Thoreau  and 

Emerson,  e'en 
Thy  thoughts  as  the  flow  of  a  river  make  the  hills  of  humanity 

green. 

Thy  sons  have  been  ever  the  sages;  tall  souls  that,  outrising 

the  night, 
Have  caught  at  the  earliest  dawning — the  law  from  some  orient 

height, 

And  have  hasted  them  down  from  the  mountain,  like  Moses  of 

old  with  a  sword, 
And  the  tablets  of  granite  engraven,  and  a  "  hear  ye,   for  thus 

saith  the  Lord!" 

And,  yet,  there  is  something  to  hope  for — a  glory  not  yet  quite 

attained; 
In   the   rock   by  the  wayside,    New  England,    is   an  angel  of 

beauty  enchained. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  265 

E'en  the  angel  of  Christ  in  the  human:  the  perfection  of   right 

that  is  might! 
And  may  God  haste  the  chisel  of  progress  that  bringeth  that 

glory  to  light. 


HON.  JOSEPHUS  BROWN. 

"The    Hon.   Josephus   Brown,   from    Beanville,    is   stopping  at  the   City 
Hotel." — City  Item. 

WELL,  yes,  I'll  have  to  own  it,  square:   I  sent  that  item  in, 
Not  that  I  thought  of  my  affairs  that  you  would  care  a 

pin; 

But,  now  a  days,  folks  get  in  print  that  mean  to  make  a  show, 
As  gin'ral  this,  or  kurnel  that,  or  hon'rable  so  and  so. 
And  though  it  was  a  weakness,  square,  as  I  must  freely  own, 
I  thought  I'd  like  to  see  that  way,  my  name,  Josephus  Brown. 

I'm  growin'  old  and,  mebbe,  square,  that  you  will  think  a  fool; 
But  Jane  is  scollardly  enough — she  kept  the  village  school. 
"Jane?"     That's  my  wife.     You  knew  her,  square — she  that 

was  Janie  Towne; 

Of  course  you  haint  forgot  the  day  she  married  'Cephas  Brown  ? 
(Yes,  I  am  he.     How  are  you,   Joe  ? — )   But  that  is  all  gone 

by; 

One  had  to  be  the  loser,  Joe:   'twas  either  you  or  I. 
But,  Jane,  poor  girl  !  sometimes  I  think  she  did  not  do  her 

best; 
Though  when   I've  said  as  much  to  her,  she's  answered  that 

she  "  guessed 
She  knew  her  business;" — bless  her  heart !   I  ne'er  could  make 

her  own 
That  ever  she  did  rue  the  day  she  married  'Cephas  Brown. 

We've  talked  it  o'er  a  thousand  times,  I  always  felt  afraid 
That  I  had  made  too  hard  a  bed  for  that  dear  little  maid, 
Who  had  but  to  have  spoke  the  word  and  gold  was  at  com- 
mand— 


266  MISCELLANEOUS. 

And  high  estate,  and  rank,  perhaps,  the  proudest  in  the  land. 
And  if  while  drudging  out  the  days  of  our  hard  country  life, 
Has  sometimes  come  a  yearning  thought  about  some  city  wife,. 
That  never  spun  an  ounce  of  wool,  or  e'en  that  ever  knew, 
But  that  upon  some  tree  or  shrub  fresh  eggs  and  butter  grew; 
If   she    has   thought  what   might   have   been    when   hardships 

bore  her  down 
Till  weakness  came,  she  ne'er  were  blamed  by  me,  Josephus 

Brown. 

But  no;  to  her  philosophy  for  man  or  womanhood: 
According  to  the  strength  to  bear,  some  hardship  is  for  good; 
"Gold  is  not  wealth;"  sometimes  I  think  she  says  it  for  my 

sake — 

"  Who  loses  most  may  win  the  most  of  all  that  is  at  stake 
Of  any  real  good  in  life:  than  discord's  ax,  superb, 
Far  better,  in  some  rural  cot,  contentment's  humble  herb  !" 
So  saith   my  brave,   good    wife   that   is — she   that   was   Janie 

Towne— 
Who  left  so  much   that   might  have   been,  for   me,  Josephus 

Brown. 

But,  square,  I've  wandered  off  a  bit  from  saying  what  I  meant, 
Which  was  that  when  to  put  in  print  my  name  to  you  I  sent, 
We'd  talked  and  talked  the  matter  o'er — that's  me,  you  know, 

and  Jane,— 

And  both  agreed,  though  some  might  think  us  not  a  little  vain, 
That  since  I  once  the  honor  had  to  "  represent  "  our  town, 
Some  right  had  I,  with  H-o-n.  to  write  Josephus  Brown. 
I  thought,  myself,  that  E-s-q.  was  all  the  case  would  bear; 
But  Jane,  she  said  that  was  a  plume  that  any  fool  could  wear; 
The  other  were'nt  so  common  like,  though  sometimes  out  of 

place, 

In  helping  some  infamous  chap  to  tide  o'er  some  disgrace. 
But  now  I  come  to  think  on't,  square,  'twas  foolish  like,  I  own, 
To  add  pretentious  prefix,  such,  to  plain  Josephus  Brown. 

For  honors  are'nt  so  easy,  square — the  gospel  sort,  I  mean, 
That  one  can  buy  enough  to  cleanse  a  soul  that  is'nt  clean. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  267  ' 

And  though  sometimes  my  wife  may  think  that  I'm  the  best 

of  men, 
Yet,  looking  back  through  all  the  years  of  my  three  score  and 

ten, 

There's  much  I  find  to  make  me  e'en  the  "  H-o-n."  disown, 
And  be  content  to  write  my  name,  as  plain  Josephus  Brown. 


MARRY   A  GENTLEMAN. 


O'AID  a  beautiful  maid,  one  day  to  me, 

0  "  Marry  a  gentleman  !  why  of  course! 
What  do  you  take  me  for,  said  she, 

A  goose  ?  or  worse  ? 

"  What  were  the  good  of  a  couple  of  maids 

As  running  mates  on  the  track  of  years  ? 
As  well  to  rivet  two  nether  blades 

For  a  pair  of  shears!  " 

"Of  course,"  said  I,  ''but  you  see,  you  see, 
To  put  it  as  plainly  as  I  can, 

1  meant  but  this,  that  your  love  should  be 

A  noble  man!  " 

"But  noble  men  are  not  plenty  now," 

With  puzzled  look,  said  the  little  maid; 
"  For  such  I  would  have  too  far  to  go, 
I  am  much  afraid." 

Nay,  not  so  far  as  may  be  supposed; 

Nobility  dwelleth  in  every  land- 
Though  not  in  the  outward  garb  disclosed, 
Or  the  jeweled  hand. 

It  bears  no  sceptre — it  wears  no  crown— 

Nor  vaunts  itself  upon  others'  deeds, 
With  heart  as  humble  as  hands  are  brown, 
Wherever  leads 


268  MISCELLANEOUS. 

The  surest  path  to  the  truest  life, 

Will  now,  as  ever  since  time  began, 
Be  found  in  search  of  a  loving  wife, 
Some  gentleman, — 

Who  lives  to  love,  and  who  loves  to  live, 

That  earth  be  better  for  him,  indeed, 
Who  askef  h  no  gift  that  he  will  not  give 
To  another's  need. 

And  so  to  the  maiden  I  said,  "  you  see, 

To  put  it  as  plainly  as  I  can, 
I  meant  but  this,  that  your  love  should  be, 
A  gentleman." 


THE  BOYCOTT. 


DOWN  from  the  hills  on  a  marketing  day, 
Came  Farmer  John  with  a  load  of  hay, 
At  a  stalwart  price  that  he  wished  to  sell. 
So  he  skirmished  the  village  about  until 
He  came  to  the  dwelling  of  Laborer  Jim — 
A  workman  of  his,  and  he  said  to  him: 
"A  cow  you  have  got,  and  a  cow  must  eat, 
And  I  have  some  hay  that  is  good  and  sweet; 
My  wants  they  are  many,  my  purse  is  low; 
I'll  sell  you  the  food  for  your  hungry  cow 
At  forty  dollars  the  single  ton, 
And  not  a  cent  cheaper,"  said  Farmer  John. 

Says  Laborer  Jim,  "  But  the  price  is  too  high; 
It  is  true  that  my  cow  she  must  eat  or  die; 
But  you  know  that  in  market  per  ton,  to-day, 
For  thirty  good  dollars  there's  plenty  of  hay. 
My  income  is  small,  and  upon  my  word, 


MISCELLANEOUS. 

To  give  you  ten  dollars  I  cannot  afford. 

If  you  11  not  take  the  thirty,  why  then  away, — 

You  can  'git  up  and  git'  with  your  load  of  hay." 

"But  that  will  not  do,"  said  old  Fanner  John; 

"  You  must  give  me  the  price  that  I  ask  per  ton, 

Or  a  trade's  commission  on  you  shall  wait, 

And  the  price  you  must  pay  we  will  arbitrate. 

Demanding  your  books,  we  will  scan  the  amount 

That  goes  to  your  daily  expense  account; 

We  will  peep  in  your  pantry,  and  cellar,  too, 

And  say  what  you  can  or  you  cannot  do; 

And  mind!     The  expenses,  at  so  much  per  day, 

For  the  arbiters'  time  you  will  have  to  pay, 

Or  the  fiat  will  issue  that  downs  your  house, 

And  giveth  your  cow  but  as  nothing  to  browse. 

We'll  boycott  the  butcher  that  bringeth  your  meat 

And  the  shoeman  that  covers  your  children's  feet. 

Nay,  more;  but  unless  you  my  price  advance, 

We'll  boycott  your  cousins  and  all  your  aunts; 

In  short,  and  forever  while  any  remains 

To  share  in  the  stock  of  your  beggarly  veins, 

We'll  punch,  and  we'll  pinch  them,  from  day  unto  day, 

If  you  give  not  the  price  for  my  beautiful  hay." 

Then  uprose  Toiler  Jim,  and  said  he,  "As  a  man 
I  will  stand  by  my  manhood  as  long  as  I  can; 
My  labor  is  worth,  or  in  winter  or  spring, 
As  you  say,  Farmer  John,  only  what  it  will  bring'; 
Then,  as  it  is  worth  in  the  markets  to-day, 
For  that,  and  that  only,  I'll  purchase  your  hay; 
But  never  a  cent  (though  I  starve,  Farmer  John) 
Will  I  give  the  footpad  with  the  boycotting  gun." 


'Tis  a  homely  old  adage  quite  often  in  use, 

That  "sauce  for  the  gander  is  sauce  for  the  goose." 


270  MISCELLANEOUS. 

If  the  toiler  for  wages  may  use  the  "boycott" 

For  getting  what  otherwise  cannot  be  got, 

Then,  to  market  their  wares  and  their  profits  enchance, 

Why  should  not  the  "  bosses  "  be  given  a  chance  ? 

Let's  work  out  the  problem.     To  cure  up  the  ills 

That  menace  the  mansion  as  well  as  the  mills, 

On  the  back  of  whatever  displeases — why  not  ? 

Let  us  lay  on  the  lash,  with  the  snapper  "boycott." 

But  there's  one  thing  methinks  after  all  that  we'll  find, 
And  it  is  that  the  blindest  of  men  are  the  blind 
Who  think  they  can  see  'that  in  order  to  thrive 
They've  only  to  "fiat"  two  and  two  to  be  five. 


LET  HIM  ALONE. 


Y17HESE  be  brave  words,  and  noble  as  brave. 
A       It  is  time  for  rebuking  the  pitiful  knave 
That — saving  himself — would  keep  others  at  sea, 
To  perish  in  sight  of  the  "flag  of  the  free.  ' 

Poor  Johnny  Chinaman,  let  him  alone  ! 

He  comes  to  us  asking  not  even  a  bone 

That  he  pays  not  in  full  for;  no  pauper  is  he,— 

He  asks  but  permission  to  "  washee,  wash-ee."    • 

Shod  with  "canal  boats,"  and  under  his  hat 
A  "pigtail,"  you  say?     Well,  sir,  what  of  that? 
Or  Miss,  if  you  please  ?     The  pigtail  of  Chang 
Is  as  "  lovely  "  perhaps  as  your  idiot  "bang." 

Irishman  !   where  is  your  deed  for  the  air 
That  you  take,  while  to  others  refusing  a  share? 
Refuge  is  this  for  the  poor  and  oppressed; 
Have  you  not  found  it  so,  friend,  in  the  past  ? 


MISCELLANEOUS.  271 

Yankee  !  and  where  isjvw  title  to  hold 
The  land  that  you  stole  from  the  red  man  of  old  ? 
Might  maketh  not  Right  !     "  The  Chinese  must  go  !" 
Is  the  cry  of  the  demagogue — decency's  foe. 

Hark  ye,  my  neighbors  !     The  "  Chinee"  shall  STAY  ! 
So  long  as  our  laws  he  shall  chose  to  obey; 
When  this  he  does  not  'twill  be  time  then,  you  know, 
With  the  ;'  sand  lots  "  to  echo,  the  "  Chinese  must  go," 

Poor  Johnny  Chinaman  !  almond-eyed  son 

Of  a  nation  that  stands  with  its  feet  to  our  sun, 

Do  not  denounce  him,  though  your  mothers  at  home, 

Should  not  have  enough  "washee"  to  keep  you  in  rum. 

Let  him  alone  !  he  is  harmless  enough; 

Let  him  alone,  Mr.  Bummer  or  Rough  ! 

If  cleanliness  next  unto  godliness  be, 

A  mission  to  you  hath  this  "heathen  Chinee." 


TO  AN   INVALID   MOTHER. 


WHY  steals  the  silent  tear,  mother, 
Adown  thy  snowy  cheek  ? 
Alas!  those  deep-drawn  sighs,  mother, 

A  sorrowed  heart  bespeak. 
Dark  clouds  of  deep  and  gath'ring  gloom 

Come  shadowing  o'er  thy  brow, 
And  thy  voice  which  once  rang  clear  in  song, 
Is  hushed  in  sadness  now. 

Sometimes  from  thy  blue  eye,  mother, 

A  fleeting  smile  will  gleam, 
Yet  most  are  they  like  tears,  mother, 

So  faint,  so  sad  their  beam. 


272  MISCKLLAXKOUS. 

Once  'twas  not  thus;  the  time  was  when 

Thy  all  of  life  was  gay, 
Ere  sorrow's  clouds  had  veiled  the  sky 

Of  young  life's  summer  day. 

Thy  voice  in  praise,  I've  heard,  mother, 

Ere  th'  lark  proclaimed  the  dawn, 
As  hand  in  hand  we  roamed,  mother, 

The  dew-bespangled  lawn; 
And  oft  at  the  morning  hour 

We  breathed  the  perfumed  air, 
Thou  did'st  teach  my  infant  knee  to  bend 

In  humble,  grateful  prayer. 

But  now  there  is  a  change,  mother, 

Disease  thy  limbs  have  claimed; 
And  months  and  years  thou'st  suffered,  mother, 

Yet  hast  thou  not  complained. 
And  when  I  mark  the  rising  tear, 

Unbidden,  dim  thine  eye, 
I  know  that  sorrow,  care  and  pain 

Call  forth  each  tear,  each  sigh. 

I  would  that  blooming  health,  mother, 

Again  might  kiss  thy  cheek, 
And  many  happy  days,  mother, 

Would  I  for  thee  bespeak. 
But  if  it  is  by  heaven  ordained 

That  thou  must  suffer  still, 
Mother!  by  Him  be  thou  sustained, 

"Who  doeth  all  things  well." 


MISCELLANEOUS.  273 

U 


A  MAN  is  A  MAN: 


ITTOW  hark  ye,  my  friend!   it's  a  blunder  ye're  makin'; 
\\         Disgrace  does  not  come  from  a  nation  or  name: 
'Tis  the  deed  that  must  judge  us, — the  truth  I'm  spakin', — 
And  only  the  deed  that  can  bring  us  to  shame. 

What  matter,  me  boy,  though  our  dust  may  be  taken 
From  Erin's  green  isle,  or  this  land  of  the  west? 

A  man  is  a  man, — it's  the  truth  I  am  spakin', — 
Who  liveth  and  doeth  the  thing  that  is  best. 

Crisp  though  his  hair,  and  sooty  his  face  is; 

Born  to  the  spade  or  the  purple  so  fine; 
The  King  is  his  Father!  and  He  by  his  graces, 

To  each  giveth  birthright  as  "prince  of  the  line." 

Ashamed  of  the  land  of  your  fathers?     Forbid  it! 

Ye  army  of  martyrs  that  live  in  its  song; 
It  is  hasty  ye  were,  or  ye  could  not  have  said  it; 

The  heart  it  was  right,  but  the  head  it  was  wrong. 

Ashamed  of  the  land  of  O'Connel  and  Emrnet  ? 

Of  Meagher,  and  Mitchell,  and  Matthew,  indeed  ? 
Then,  aye,  let  the  child  of  its  mother  disclaim  it, 

And  blush  for  the  milk  that  hath  nurtured  and  fed! 

Oh,  Erin!   brave  Erin!  bright  gem  of  the  ocean! 

Though  tuned  is  thy  wild  harp  to  sorrowing  strains; 
Yet  ne'er  may  thy  children  so  lack  in  devotion, 

As  to  blush  for  the  blood  that  is  flooding  their  veins. 

Then  harkee,  my  friends,  it's  a  blunder  ye're  makin'; 

Disgrace  cannot  come  from  a  nation  or  name; 
^Tis  the  deed  that  must  judge  us, — the  truth  I  am  spakin',— 

And  only  our  deeds  that  can  bring  us  to  shame. 

So  give  us  your  hand,  now, — begorra,  I  mane  it! — 

Let's  build  up  a  bridge  o'er  this  "chasm,"  and  then 

With  our  oaks  and  our  shamrocks,  we'll  strive  to  maintain  it, 
And  work  with  each  other  like  brothers — and  men! 


274  MISCELLANEOUS. 

IN  MEMORIAM 


DR.    AMBROSE    HKA  KDSI.KY. 

IKE  children  at  play  on  the  ocean  strand, 
We  build  up  our  castles  of  shifting  sand: 

The  tide  comes  in,  and  the  tide  goes  out, 
And  where  we  have  build ed  is  left  in  doubt; 

We  measure  our  lands  and  we  count  our  gold, 
And  we  clutch  our  possessions  with  frantic  hold; 

We  bend  to  our  tasks  like  the  galley  slave, 

Till  we  stand  on  the  brink  of  the  yawning  grave  ! 

And  this  is  life  !     Of  its  shifting  sand 
Must  we  build,  forever,  with  childish  hand? 

Is  there  nothing  to  stand,  as  the  solid  rock, 
Forever  defying  the  tempest's  shock  ? 

Must  we  grovel  and  grope  among  sordid  things, 
With  the  .rustle  about  us  of  soaring  wings  ? 

Go  stand  with  me  at  yon  new  made  grave, 
Where  sleepeth  the  friend  of  the  loyal  brave, 

And  the  friend  of  the  lame  and  the  halt  and  blind, 
And  the  lowest  and  poorest  of  human  kind, — 

Whose  hand  was  full  of  restoring  balm 

And  whose  life  was  as  sweet  as  a  morning  psalm  ! 

Go  ask  of  him,  as  he  hovereth  o'er, 

If  the  castles  he  built  on  this  troubled  shore, — 

Though  they  left  him  poor  as  to  shining  gold, 
Were  not  in  the  skies  as  a  wealth  untold  ? 

Loyal  and  true — from  my  early  years 

In  the  days  of  joy  and  the  days  of  tears — 


MISCELLANEOUS.  275 

I  knew  hitn  well,  even  to  the  end, 

As  brother,  adviser,  physician  and  friend. 

Where  duty  called  it  was  his  to  go, 
Through  tempest  whirl,  or  the  biting  snow; 

Nor  counselled  he  as'to  duty's  course — 
Of  his  own  good  ease,  or  his  patient's  purse. 

It  matters  but  little  if  low  or  tall 
His  graven  shaft,  or  if  none  at  all; 

For  granite  must  crumble  and  bronze  will  rust; 
But  a  life  that  is  true  cannot  end  in  dust. 

Love  must  be  immortal.     Hope  cannot  die, 
Or  God  is  a  myth,  and  his  wisdom — a  lie 


THE  TROUBLE  AT  PODANK. 


IT  was  regular  meeting  day  of  Podank's  sewing  circle: 
Present  the  Scrimagers  and  Kranks,  the  Srnilers  and  the 

Smirkles, 

With  several  ancient  maidens,  that,  as  models  of  propriety, 
Had    passed    as    'mong    the    very   best    of    Podank's    church 
society. 

As  usual  on  occasions  when  the  guild  had  come  together, 
The  first  upon  the  docket  was  the  subject  of  the  weather; 
And  next  a  little  baby  talk,  with  turning  conversation 
Upon  the  "  Master's  vineyard  "  and  the  general  situation. 
******* 

The  work  commenced,  and  for  a  time,  the  knitting  and  the 

sewing 
Went  smoothly  on,  though  plain  it  was  that  trouble  there  was 

brewing: 

Somewhat  as  if  somewhere  beneath  by  dynamiter  loaded- 
Some  hidden  mine  by  wicked  hand  did  wait  to  be  exploded. 


276  MISCELLANEOUS. 

Miss  Skinney  and  Miss  Overgood  sat  crooning  in  a  corner, 
As  if  it  was  a  funeral  hour  and  each  was  chiefest  mourner; 
Across  the  room,  and  vis-a-vis,  a  younger  generation 
Of  Podank  belles,  of  lovers,  held  a  whispered  conversation. 

The  matrons  talked  abstractedly,  about  the  philanthropies: 

Of  linens  for  the  arctics  and  of  woolens  for  the  tropics; 

Or  into  contemplation  tcok  the  Indians  of  Dacotah, 

While  knitting  socks  and  pretty  things  for  babies  out  in  Utah. 


For  years,  the  only  public  place  for  Podank's  younger  people 
To  gather  in  a  general  way  was  underneath  the  steeple, 
Where  to  enjoy,  as  best  they  could,  old   Deacon  Buncombe's 

prayin', 
Or  Parson  Lengthy's  talk  about  the  danger  of  delayin.' 

But,  lately,  'twas  suggested  by  some  people  more  progressive, 
That,  for  the   youngsters,  less  restraint   might   sometimes  be 

permissive; 

But  just  how  far  to  give  them  rein,  and  hold  them  to  propriety, 
Was    something  that  was   on   the   mind   of    Podank's    church 

society. 

One  spoke  of  dancing  as  no  harm  if  properly  conducted — 
Another    thought    by    "readin'    rooms"    to    have    the    young 

instructed; 
While  to  employ  them  both,  'twere  well,  so  thought  good  Peter 

Saterlee, 
Suggesting  also  smoking  rooms  and  checker  boards  et  cetera. 

The  subject  had  been  wrestled  with  in  prayerful  meditation, 
The  faithful  pulpit,  too,  had  mourned  the  risky  situation; 
And  yet,  despite  all  warning  words  regarding  church  propriety, 
The  project  daily  converts  made  from  Podank's  best  society. 
******* 

The  clock    upon  the  stroke  of  three   cut   shart   the   skirmish 

rattle, 
When  all,  as  if  with  one  consent,  fell  into  line  of  battle, 


MISCELLANEOUS.  277 

For  backing  up  the  heresy,  or  for  its  full  suppression — 
A  subject  that  had  been  adjourned  from  last   week's  regular 
session. 

The  first  to  broach  the  subject  was  the  spinster  secretary, 
With  the  remark  that  life  was  short  and  sorry  was  she,  very, 
To  find  immortal  bein's  (at  some  oldish  people  glancing,) 
In  Christian  lands  to  justify  the  sinfulness  of  dancing. 

Though  there  was  something  said  about  our  walk  and  conver- 
sation, 

To  dance  was  there  no  one  command  in  all  God's  revelation; 
In  fact  to  run  the  Christian  race  was  only  recommended, 
By  them  of  old  who  followed  Him  that  to  the  earth  descended. 

u  Just  think,"  said  she,   "of  sinners   foul  with  Adam's  great 

transgression, 

A  waltzing  up  before  the  Lamb,  in  butterfly,  procession, 
To  get  a  pass  for  Canaan's  land,  instead  of  humbly  falling, 
Like  worms  and  sarpent's  that  they  are,  and  to  His  presence 

crawling  !  " 

Miss  Skinner  thought,  while  easy  quite  would  be  the  bible 
showing, 

That  to  his  thirst  for  knowledge  was  Old  Adam's  trouble 
owing, 

Yet  she  believed  in  books  and  sich,  if  prayerfully  selected, 

Though  larnin'  was  too  dearly  bought  with  savin'  grace  neg- 
lected. 

The    book    of   Martyrs,    Baxter's    "  Rest,"    with   Bunyan,    for 

example — 

The  Bible  and  some  other  sich  to  her  mind  would  be  ample; 
While  as  for  games  and  worldly  plays,  what  need  was  there  to 

add  one  ? 

Or  build  smoke  houses  for  our  youth  when  every  farmer  had 
one  ? 


278  MISCELLANEOUS. 

As  for   the  dance   some  folks  were   now  too  frisky  for   their 

calling, 
E'en  that,  sometimes,  she  called  no  names — came  pretty  near 

to  falling; — 
At  which  a  matron  quick  upspoke,  with   something  of  glass 

houses, 
In  which  dwelt  certain  ancient  dames  who  had'nt  any  spouses, 

But  ought  to  have  if  so  and  so,  not  sounding  to  their  credit, 
(Consarnin'  what   she  would    not   name),  was  true   as  people 

said  it. 

To  which  replied  the  ancient  one  with  meekness  of  a  martyr, 
"  If  some  folks  knew  the  things   I  know  about  the  deacon's 

daughter, — 

"'Tis   false,"   upspoke    the    deacon's   wife.     "What's    false?" 

inquired  the  other. 
"  I  hain't  said  nothin'."   "  What  is  more,  you  darsen't,"  screamed 

the  mother. 

So  raged  a  wordy  battle  then,  each  assailant  getting  bolder, 
In   which  were  mingled  maidens   old  and  matrons  that  were 

older, — 

With  venomed  arrows  never  one  a  neighbor's  weakness  sparing, 
Until  had  Podank's  scandal  all  received  a  thorough  airing, — 
Until — and  plainly  was  it  seen,  as  one  good  soul  expressed  it, 
That  "sinful  natur  will  crop  out  where  never  had  we  guessed 
it." 

The  circle  was  no  longer  whole;  old  friendships  had  been 
broken, 

And  faith  was  lost  in  Christian  grace,  by  hasty  words  out- 
spoken. 

Each,  charged  to  each  (as  if  ashamed  that  any  had  begun  it,) 

With  bringing  to  their  cause  a  shame,  and  went  for  cloak  and 
bonnet; 

While  I  who  tell  the  story  wake,  as  from  a  curious  dreaming, 
To    find    the    dancing    sunbeams    through    my    attic    window 
streaming. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


279 


I  heard  the  summer  bird  and  bee  their  joyfulness  rehearsing 

The  leaping-  squirrels  in  their  glee  of  autumn  feasts  discoursing. 

The   flocks    and    herds    upon   the    hills   were    galloping    their 

gladness, 
While  man,  poor  fool,  sat  down  to  croon  about  some  ancient 

badness, — 

Somehow  his  own — and  to  devise  some  pious  sort  of  shamming, 
By  which  to  blind  the  judgment  eye  and  so  escape  a  damning. 

In  reason's  name,  what  if  should  not  our  prayer  be  all  sedate- 
ness  ? 

Or  if  in  it  we  fail  to  tell  our  father  of  His  greatness  ? 

Will  He  forget  our  common  needs,  despite  His  love  abounding  ? 

Will  He  withhold  the  morning  sun, — the  seasons  from  their 
rounding  ? 

Nay,  is  He  not  by  far  too  great,  against  the  seed  of  woman, 
To  take  offence  because,  perchance,  of  errors  that  were  human  ? 
'Than  favoring  souls  that  only  in  some  outward  forms  adore 

Him, 
Will  not  who  lives  to  manliness  stand  greater  far  before  Him  ? 

It   must  be   so.      And   if   for   us   shall   heaven   be   worth   the 

winning — 
That  "heaven  within,"  declared  of  old,  why  make   not  here 

beginning? 

By  leading  so  the  joyful  path  and  upward  so  ascending, 
That  scarce  we'll  know  when  passing  on,  beginnings  from  the 

ending. 


280  MISCELLANEOUS. 

WHAT  THE   FIRST   ROBIN  SAID. 


0NE  beautiful  morning  in  early  spring, 
When  hope  was  out  on  its  shining  wing, 
As  I  lay  in  my  couch,  the  welkin  rang 
With  a  song  like  this,  which  the  robin  sang! 

"  Twir-r-r,  twir-r-r,  chit  chit  chee! 
Chur-r-r,  chur-r-r,  twit  twit  twee! 
Chuck  chuck  chuck!  and  he  sang  it  long, 
And  this  was  the  theme  of  the  singer's  song: 

Here  I  am,  here  I  am,  friends,  with  you! 
The  frost  is  gone  and  the  breezes  blow 
From  softer  climes,  and  I  come,  I  come, 
To  seek  me  a  place  for  my  summer  home. 

Ha!  but  I'll  show  you  some  pretty  tricks! 
I'll  get  some  clay  and  some  tiny  sticks, 
And  I'll  get  some  moss  and  a  tuft  of  hair — 
With  a  feather  or  two  from  here  and  there. 

And,  then,  right  here  in  this  busy  town 
I'll  build  me  a  nest  in  the  maple  crown, 
Where  soon  will  be  found  some  eggs  of  blue, 
As  pretty  as  ever  a  mortal  knew. 

And  where — in  time — shall  a  wonder  be — 
As  much  a  wonder  to  thee  as  me; 
For  I  can't  quite  tell,  no  more  can  you, 
How  cometh  the  chick  in  the  egg  of  blue. 

The  shell  will  break  and  a  callow  form 
Shall  open  its  mouth  for  the  canker  worm 
That  I  will  bring  from  the  apple  spray, 
At  the  rate  of  a  hundred  or  more  a  clay. 

And  there,  in  our  nest — my  mate  and  I  — 
We'll  teach  our  little  ones  how  to  fly; 


MISCELLANEOUS.  «  281 

And  we'll  send  them  out  on  their  mission  forth 
To  gladden  with  beauty  and  song  the  earth. 

E'en  more,  we  will  charge  them  the  whole  year  through, 
That  they  stay,  my  friend,  that  they  stay  with  you, 
But  I  ask,  in  turn,  that  if — winter-bound — 
Some  chick  of  mine  shall  be  hungry  found, 

And  its  "  quick,  quick,  quick,"  at  your  door  is  heard, 
I  ask  that  you  spread  for  the  pleading  bird 
The  feast  of  crumbs  that  you  well  can  spare, 
To  keep  it  alive  in  the  frosty  air. 

And  more,  I  ask  that  the  wretches'  "  fun," 
That  seeketh  its  life  with  the  deadly  gun, 
Shall  be  held  for  aye,  to  the  end  of  time, 
The  thing  that  it  is,  but  a  shameful  crime. 

With  a  "  quirr-r  quirr-r  quirr-r!  "  and  a  chee  chee  chee!  " 

The  bird  sped  off  to  a  neighboring  tree, 

While  I,  indeed,  ere  I  left  my  bed, 

Had  noted  the  words  that  the  robin  said. 

And  I  made  response  for  the  faithful  bird, 
That  ever  I'd  utter  a  friendly  word; 
E'en,  to  my  best,  that  I  would  defend, 
From  harm,  poor  robin,  our  winter  friend. 


AN   EARLY   FROST. 


MY  name  is  Frost;  they  call  me  John 
Perhaps  you  may  remember 
The  call  I  made  one  night,  upon 
An  evening  in  September— 
The  tenth,  I  think  it  was,  you  said, 

As  in  the  morning,  surly, 
You  pointed  out  the  tulip  bed 

And  said  I  "came  too  early." 


282  MISCELLANEOUS. 

Ho!  what  a  lively  time  that  night 

Among  the  tender  grasses! 
I  painted  all  the  valley  white, 

And  up  the  mountain  passes, 
With  brush  in  hand,  and  pallet,  too, 

Of  colors  rich  and  mellow, 
I  set  the  forest  all  aglow 

With  crimson  and  with  yellow. 

As  through  the  crispy  meadow  grass, 

Her  naked  feet  were  falling, 
How  lightly  tripped  the  dairy  lass, 

Her  charges  gaily  calling! 
And  how — as  Bess  and  Brindle  rose, 

With  full  and  creamy  pouches — 
She  stood  to  warm  her  ruddy  toes 

Among  the  vacant  couches! 

I  touched  the  saucy  chestnut  burr 

With  nipping,  icy  wrenches, 
And  quick  the  squirrels  laughing  churr. 

Was  heard  among  the  branches. 
Upon  the  fringing  border  hedge, 

I  set  my  jewels  flashing; 
And  all  along  the  river  edge 

My  tiny  ships  were  dashing. 

The  frost  grape  sweetened  on  the  vine, 

As  purple  grew  the  bunches, 
Whereon,  at  morn  and  eventime, 

The  whirring  pheasant  lunches. 
The  air  I  gave  a  healthy  glow, 

Which  cleared  the  smoky  hollow, 
And  sent  the  quicker  blood  to  flow 

Through  sallow  cheeks,  and  yellow. 

And  then  unto  the  stricken  land, 

Where  anxious  hearts  were  waiting; 

I  hastened  with  my  cooling  hand 
The  fever  fiend  abating. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  283 

And  all  along  the  southern  coast, 

I  sped  on  wings  of  healing, 
While  thousands  blessed  the  early  frost, 

That  sent  the  demon  reeling. 

I  brought  the  frightened  exile  back 

Beside  his  altars  glowing, 
And  set,  again,  the  human  tide, 

In  wonted  channels  flowing. 
And  none  there  were  in  all  the  land — 

With  angry  look,  and  surly— 
To  point  at  me  the  fevered  hand, 

And  say  I  "came  too  early." 


THE   LOCKOUT   BELL. 


WHO  was  she  ?     I  cannot  now  quite  tell  you; 
As  a  toiler  with  us  at  the  mill 
She  came  every  day  from  the  city, 

As  the  sunbeams  came  over  the  hill. 

Of  her  history  naught  could  we  gather, 

Though,  somehow.  I  think  it  was  learned, 

Of  a  sister,  and  younger,  dependent 

For  bread  on  the  wage  that  she  earned. 

She  was  called  "  Little  Maggie,  the  spooler," 
Though  small,  did  she  manage  to  fill 

The  hearts,  and  to  love  overflowing, 
Of  all  that  did  work  in  the  mill. 

One  morning,  in  clouds  came  the  snowflakes, 
The  tempest  wild  raved  and  shocked, 

As,  the  tongue  of  the  last  bell  ceasing, 
The  doors  of  the  mill  were  locked. 


284  MISCELLANEOUS. 

"Absent"  was  marked  on  her  record; 

I  knew  that  the  lassie  was  ill, 
Or  had  fallen  somewhere  in  the  snow  drift, 

That  day  on  her  way  to  the  mill. 

And  so  to  the  good  John  Downie, 

A  brawny  stout  lad,  I  said, 
"  Go  thou  quickly  and  seek  for  the  maiden 

By  the  wayside — alive  or  dead." 

And  the  laddie  went  forth  to  his  searching, 
Until  from  a  rounding  drift, 

His  eyes  saw  a  part  of  her  mantle, 

That  had  caught  on  a  bramble  lift. 

Then,  quick,  from  its  cold  white  shrouding, 

He  lifted  her  helpless  form, 
And  clasping  it  close  to  his  bosom, 

Strode  home  through  the  blinding  storm. 

The  heart  had  not  quite  ceased  beating; 

So,  laying  her  on  the  bed, 
The  maiden  reviving,  in  terror, 

Exclaimed,  as  she  lifted  her  head: 

"  The  bell!     Hark  the  last  belt  is  sounding! 

The  drift  groweth  deeper,,  and  I — 
Oh  God!  am  locked  out  and  forever 

In  the  cold,  oh,  so  cold!  and  to  die!  " 

Then  laying  her  back  on  the  pillow 

There  came,  in  despite  of  the  storm, 

As  it  seemed,  through  the  roof  of  my  cabin, 
A  sunbeam  that  lighted  her  form, 

Above  which  a  white  mist  gathered, 
That,  taking  on  human  guise, 

Did  follow  the  sunbeams  upward 
And  on  to  the  over  skies. 


MISCKLLANKOUS.  285 

You  think  as  it  pleases  you,  neighbor, 

Of  my  story  as  something  absurd, 
But  unless  did  my  senses  deceive  me, 

From  the  spirit  departing  I  heard 

This  song,  as  it  were,  of  rejoicing: 

"  I  am  free,  I  am  free  from  the  mill, 
From  the  pitiless  task  of  the  master, 

From  the  clang  of  the  merciless  bell. 

"  I  am,  I — little  Maggie  the  spooler, 

An  immortal,  to  earth  yet  allied; 
I  am  dead,  yet  alive!  and  about  me, 

Are  the  vanished  that  never  have  died. 

u  I  have  garments  of  richness  and  splendor, 

I  have  jewels  of  beauty,  and  rare! 
I  can  ride  on  the  sunbeams,  they  tell  me, 

And  visit  from  star  unto  star! 

"To  my  need  will  be  mansions  uplifted; 

To  my  wish  will  come  answering  boon; 
I  have  life,  and  where  life  is  eternal, 

And  the  clock  pointeth  ever  a  noon. 

"  I  have  learned  that  for  whom  that  is  faithful — 

For  whom  that  is  loving  and  true, — 
For  whom,  that,  as  strength  it  is  given, 

Shall  do  what  is  given  to  do. 

"  Though  the  snows  of  the  earth  drift  about  them, 

To  hinder  their  way  to  the  gate, 
Shall  no  Mock  out'  be  found  to  confront  them, 

Because  of  a  coming  too  late." 


286  MISCKl.LANK'.H  S. 

AN   EASTERN   APOLOGUE. 


THERE   is  a  story,  somewhere,  that  is  told 
About  some  Rabbis  in  the  days  of  old, 
That  in  the  market  place  did  gather  round 
The  loathsome  carcass  of  a  wretched  hound, 
That,  stoned  by  urchins,  and  with  scourges  plied, 
Had  done  what  every  cur  must  do — had  died. 

They  talked  the  matter  over,  pro  and  con: 
Who  was  his  master,  or  if  he  had  none; 
A  rope  was  round  his  neck — was  he  a  thief  ? 
Of  sinning  dogs,  did  he  not  look  the  chief? 

Spurning  the  carcass  with  his  sandalled  foot, 
Up-spake  one  Rabbi,  "  'tis  a  sorry  brute! 
And  justly,  doubtless,  was  it  that  he  died. 
There's  no  good  thing  about  him,  e'en  his  hide 
Is  full  of  holes  and  would  not  bring  a  groat." 
4'  Faugh!  "  said  another,  as  he  turned  about, 
"  To  my  good  nostrils  doth  he  give  offence — 
Pray  take  him  hence." 

A  gentle  stranger  of  a  kindly  mien, 
That,  till  the  moment,  had  not  there  been  seen, 
Bent  lowly  down  above  the  form  beneath, 
And  said,  "like  pearls  are  that  poor  fellow's  teeth, 
And  vanished. 

I'pspake  the  Rabbis  all,  in  underbreath, 
"This  must  have  been  that  man  of  Nazareth! 
For  surely  none  but  him  had  ever  found 
A  thing  to  praise  in  such  a  wretched  hound." 


MISCELLANKOCS.  287 

OUR  MODERN  GIRLS. 

I. 

'TTCX'OMPLISHKD?     Yes,  the  girls  are    that,  as  goes  the 
I A  world  to-day, 

They  dance  and  sing  and  flutter  in  the  most  delightful  way; 
But  how  about  the  duties  that,  within  the  kitchen  door, 
So  kept  the  matrons  busy  in  the  good  old  days  of  yore  ? 

'Tis   childhood,    now,   or   womanhood — there  is   no  stage  be- 
tween ; 

The  maid  becomes  "her  ladyship  "  before  she's  seventeen, 
To  flirt  and  flutter  on  the  stage  of  life's  gay  world  about, 
Or,  on  the  sofa  dream  the  dream  of  some  last  novel  out. 

I  well  remember,  Tom,  the  day  when,  helpful  to  your  side, 
That  sweet  brown  little  maiden  came  to  be  your  loving  bride. 
What  if  the  only  tune  she  played  was  on  the  spinning  wheel, 
Or,  with  the  rat'ling  dishes  when  was  done  the  daily  meal  ? 

Without  her  daily  labor,  Tom,  in  many  a  helpful  way — 

To  spin,  and    weave,   and  make  and  mend,  where  were  your 

lands  to-day? 

And  still,  surrounded  by  her  court,  well  caring  for  her  own, 
Is  that  true  hearted  maiden  found  upon  her  kitchen  throne, 

While    her    sweet    girls    with    dainty   feet   parade    the    parlor 

room 
With  trailing  flounce  to  sweep  the  floor — though  seldom  with 

the  broom! 

E'en  granting  all  their  boasted  charms,  without   your  helping- 
purse— 

With   which   would    any    mortal    chance    the    better,    for    the 
worse  ? 

II. 

I  don't  go  much  on  people,  squire,  that  are  too  swift  to  find 
Some  weakness  or  some  steps  askew  in  our  poor  humankind: 
In  corners  that  can  sit  and  chirp  about  the  days  of  old, 
Stone  blind  to  all  the  glories  that  these  latter  days  unfold. 


288  MISCKI.I.AXl.orS. 

You  speak  about  the  matrons,  squire,  that,  in  our  earlier  day, 

Stood  at  the  helpful  labor  wheel;   I  grant  it  as  you  say. 

They  were  our  helpmeets  true,  indeed,  whose  rounding  day  of 

toil 
Too  often  found  its  weary  end  beside  the  midnight  oil. 

But,  that  was  ere  from  head  to  point  had  changed  the  needle's 

eye — 

Ere  rapid  seam  and  gusset  could  the  Singer  wheel  supply — 
Ere  science,  for  assisting  toil,  had  furnished  us  the  means, 
Or,  ready  baked,  had   Boston    sent    her   brown   bread  and  her 

beans. 

But  here  comes  up  the  question  as  to  what  are  life's  demands; 
If  idleness  be  happiness,  then,  with  enfolded  hands, 
To  wait  the  benefactions  of  who  reap  of  that  they  sow, 
Or  sit  like  beggars  at  the  gate  would  be  a  heav'n  below. 

But  since  the  fiat  hath  gone  forth,  by  labor  shalt  thou  eat 
The  bread  of  that  existence  that  so  makes  the  slumber  sweet, 
'Twere  better  that  we  teach   them,   squire,   our  boys  and  girls 

the  same, 
That  aimless  indolence  is  but  the  beggary  of  shame: 

That  for  their  living  in  this  world,  upon  the  score  of  use 
To  others,  as  unto  themselves,  there  should  be  some  excuse. 
To  merely  breathe  is  not  to  live;   in  slumber  by  the  way 
Whose  breath  hath  run  a   hundred  years  may  not  have   lived  a 
day. 

The  sire  goes  forth  to  daily  toil  though  plenty  fills  his  purse, 
Because  the  current  of  his  life  he  cannot  now  reverse; 
Ths  matron  keeps  her  kitchen,  though  needless  for  to-day, 
Content  to  find  her  happiness  in  her  old-fashioned  way. 

Yet  toil  need  not  be  drudgery — a  strife  without  surcease, 
Since  to  the  reason-guided  plow  earth  gives  a  fair  increase: 
E'en  as  the  lillies,  glory  clad,  along  the  valleys  grow, 
Nor  toiling  yet,  nor  spinning,  to  brighten  earth  below; 
So,  in  life's  rugged  labor  fields,  our  modern  maids  may  hold, 
Though  menials  less,  as  helpful  place  as  did  the  girls  of  old. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  289 

THE  GREENHORN   INVASION. 


TITHE  greenhorn  came  down,  like  a  wolf  on  the  fold— 
A       (If  you've  heard  that  before)  say,  an  army  untold 
Of  grasshoppers,  nimble  and  hungry  and  bold; 
Their  boots  were  fourteens,  and  their  locks  were  of  gold. 

They  came  on  the  boats  and  they  came  on  the  trains, 
From  the  farm  on  the  hillside,  and  up  from  the  plains! 
There  were  "bang"-headed  maidens  and  shock-headed  swains, 
With  dinner  plate  breast-pins,  and  "  loud  "-looking  chains. 

They    swarmed    on    the    pavement,    they    swarmed    on    the 

"  fence," 

And  they  drew  from  their  pockets,  with  a  "darn  the  expense," 
Their  long  hoarded  shillings  and  slow  gathered  pence, 
And  went  for  the  peanuts  with  gusto  immense. 

'Twas  the  Glorious  Fourth!  and  the  Britishers'  rout 
Was  made  the  pretext  for  a  regular  "bout," 
Which,  the  papers  all  said  would,  without  any  doubt, 
For  the  City  of  Elms,  be  the  biggest  thing  out. 

(And  it  was.) 

To  turn  a  bright  penny,  and  help  out  the  fete, 
Each  honest  old  cit.  on  the  line  of  the  street, 
From  his  window  or  balcony  put  out  his  "  seat," 
With  "  price  fifty  cents  "  the  invader  to  beat, 

(Which  was  cheap). 

Though  the  same,  the  "  invader"  was  slow  for  to  see, 
So  he  hung  himself  up  on  a  neighboring  tree, 
Or  stood  on  one  leg,  and  awaited  a  chance 
To  put  down  the  other,  to  make  an  advance 

On  the  show  in  the  street. 

There  were  sogers  and  sogers!  oh  my!  what  a  time! 

Bakers'  carts  by  the  dozen,  to  eke  out  the  line! 

«Gim  cracks  and  odd  notions, —  cough  syrups  and  spoons; 


2QO  MISCKLLAXKOrS. 

Old  men  and  old  wagons,  antiques  and  buffoons; 

"  Fire  injuns,"  and  injuns  without  any  fire, 

(Save  what  they  imbibed,  and  the  day  could  inspire), 

Marching  straight  on  the  war  path,  in  leggin  and  sock, 

Keeping  time  to  the  music  of  Grandfather's  Clock; 

Young  girls  and  old  maidens — too  old,  sir,  to  mention, 

And  a  thousand  things  else  claimed  the  greenhorn's  attention. 

Bean  town  was  all  out.     There  was  Flora  McFrill, 
And  Clarence  Fitz-pup,  from  the  "  manse  "  on  the  hill; 
With  the  lawyer  O'Grabb; — e'en  the  parson  was  there, 
With  thin,  gothic  forehead,  and  long,  flowing  hair, 
With  his  wife  and  his  "nine,"  in  the  heat  of  the  fray, 
Like  ancient  John  Rogers — a  martyr,  that  day; 
There  was  Bridget  and  Dinah,  and  Sallie  and  Moll, 
And  daddy  and  mammy  and  granny  et  al, — 
Oh,  a  motley  old  crowd  as  ever  were  seen, 
Were  the  greenhorns  that  gathered  that  day  on  the  green. 

And  yet,  as  I  stood  'neath  the  arching  old  trees, 

Which  for  three  generations  have  swung  to  the  breeze, 

I  thought  it  was  yeomanry  like  unto  these 

That  furnish  the  fellows  that  take  their  degrees: 

For  what  so  of  lore  can  be  sandwiched  between 

The  yacht,  and  the  bat,  and  the  "fence  "  on  the  green. 

And  I  thought  of  their  bliss,  if  they  lacked  but  in  knowledge, 

Of  what  their  bright  cubs  were  about  k>  down  to  college." 

For  their  toil  were  embittered,  did  they  know  that  each  penny 

Sent  down  to  their  "  darlings  "  was  just  one  too  many; 

Serving  only  to  keep  them  away  from  the  plow  — 

The  only  profession  they  were  fitted  to  know — 

And  to  tether  them  out  on  the  world  for  subsistence, 

To  preach  out,  or  pray  out,  a  useless  existence. 

But,  also,  I  thought  how  the  beautiful  trees 
Could  tell,  if  they  would,  how  from  yeomen  like  these 
Came  thousands  of  youth  to  the  pierian  stream, 
To  find  in  its  waters  the  goal  of  their  dream — 


.MISCELLANEOUS.  291 

Of  the  thousands  that  came  and  the  thousands  that  fled 
From  their  classical  shades  to  the  shades  of  the  dead, 
Writing  high,  as  they  traveled  from  age  unto  age, 
Their  names,  through  their  deeds,  on  humanity's  page. 

Aye,  laugh  if  you  will,  at  the  Fresh  on  the  "fence," 
And  joke  his  brogans,  which  you  say  are  immense; 
But  you'll  find  them  one  day,  and  it  may  not  be  far, 
Walking  into  the  judgment  seat,  over  the  "bar," 
Or  into  the  forum,  on  mission  divine, 
To  break  down  the  idols  of  custom  and  time. 

So,  give  us  your  hand,  then,  brave  sons  of  the  soil, 
Though  rude  be  your  raiment,  and  hardy  your  toil; 
Though  the  butterfly  world  may  deride  you,  at  length 
To  your  fields  it  must  come  for  its  vigor  and  strength. 


WHAT  I  WOULD  HAVE  SAID. 


IF  I  had  been  advised,  my  friends,  of  that  delightful  greeting, 
That  sweet  "  surprise  "  that  set  my  heart  to  such  tumult- 
uous beating — 

Not  that  I  think,  to  such  as  thee,  my  humble  thoughts  essen- 
tial, 
Yet,  this  is  what  I  would  have  said,  between  us,  confidential: 

Fill  up  the  bumper  high,  my  boys  !  fill  up  to  fullest  measure: 
And  while  to  love  we  consecrate  this  hour  of  social  pleasure, 
Let's  drop  life's  haunting  thirst  for  gain,  bar  out  the  idle 

schemer, 
And   crossing   palm   to   boyish   dreams,   let's   drink    unto   the 

dreamer. 

Time's  annual  rounds  are  fifty-nine,  and  as  I  now  record  them, 
Emotions  crowd  so  thickly  that  T  know  not  how  to  word  them. 
Lo  !  on  my  castled  prison  walls  awak'ning  from  my  slumber 
Each   birthday  morn,  with   startled    gaze,  one  window  less   I 

number  ! 


292  MISCELLANEOUS. 

Yet,  as  of  yore,  through  what  remain,  the  hills  round   up  as 

greenly 

And  all  along  the  river's  bank,  the  lillies  bloom  as  queenly. 
Old   age,  go   to  !    Within    my   heart    love's   tender    songs   are 

trilling, 
As  sweetly  as  when,  long  ago,  the  old,  old  story  telling. 

I  will  not  have  it  that  I'm  "old."     True,  time  must  stop   his 

timing, 
Or    soon,    or    late — soon    it    may    be — yet    up    the    mountain 

climbing, 
The  train  moves  on.     Breath  is  not  life.     Earth  particles  may 

sever, 
Yet  lives  the  spirit  that  indwelt  forever  and  forever. 

Forever?  Tis  a  simple  word;  an  infant's  lip  may  tell  it; 
Yet,  save  who  ruleth,  where  is  he  in  fullness  to  reveal  it  ? 
The  train  moves  on.  "How  know  I  this?"  E'en  as  upon 

the  ocean, 
One  feels  the  thrill,  though  deaf  and  blind,  of  paddle  wheels 

in  motion. 

Ah,  but  you  say,  ''  show  but  one  track  of  whom  hath  crossed 

the  border, 

And  I  will  turn  to  holy  things — will  set  my  house  in  order; 
And   gold   shall   be    as    simple   dust;    and    man    shall   be    my 

brother; 
And  I'll  prefer  to  selfish  ends  the  glory  of  another. 

E'en  more,  I'll  give  of  what  is  mine,  to  whom   but  asked  to 

borrow; 

Nor  have  a  care  for  scrip  or  purse,  to  serve  me  on  the  morrow. 
Men  tell  me  what  they  think  is  known  about  some  far  off  glory, 
But  who  comes  back  from  heav'nly  shores  to  tell  a  traveled 

story  ? 

I  cannot  answer  as  I  would,  lest  ye  should  not  believe  me; 
But  this  I  say,  unless  the  Word  was  written  to  deceive  thee, 


MISCELLANEOUS.  293 

Around    are    "clouds    of    witnesses,"    and    who    are    they,    I 

wonder, 
But  friends  to  come  at  call  to  rend  this  veil  of  doubt  asunder. 

"  And  shall  this  be  ?"     Friend,  keep  thy  heart;  what  hath  been 

is  forever; 
How  know  you  but  some  spirit  form  hath  crossed  the  shining 

river; 
Hath  left  its  footprints  in  the  sand — perchance  to  greet  our 

vision, 
May  stand  in  wait,  with  map  in  hand,  to  show  us  the  elysian. 

What  wretched  lives  these  mortals  live  who  prate  of  heaven 

and  glory, 

And  clutch  at  gold  and  paltry  dust,  until  the  head  is  hoary; 
Who  plant  and  sow  and  reap  and  mow,  or  in  or  out  of  season— 
Who   breathe  to  live   and   live  to   breathe,  and   for   no  other 

reason; 
Save,  tow'rd  the  end,  with  crooning  song,  to  measure  up  their 

losses, 
Up-climb  their  little  calvaries  and  murmur  at  their  crosses. 

I  know  not  how  it  may  have  been  with  you,  my  friend  and 

brother; 

But,  as  for  me,  no  fault  I  find  with  earth,  our  loving  mother  ; 
All  that  I  have,  all  that  I  am,  to  her  kind  hand  I  owe  it; 
All  that   shall  be,  shall  be   because   through   her  did   heaven 

bestow  it. 

In  worldly  things  a  fair  success  I  do  not  beg  or  borrow; 

In  hope  and  faith  a  millionaire,  I  boldly  face  the  morrow. 

A  faithful   wife   hath   blessed   my  board;    children — but  they 

have  left  me; 
I  drop  a  tear  and  kiss  the  rod  of  fortune  that  bereft  me. 

So  looking  down  the  line  of  years  with  nothing  to  be  vain  of, 
With  here  and  there  a  shadow  grim,  yet  little  to  complain  of, 
That  calm  philosophy  of  life  hath  brought  its  consolation, 
That  takes  what  is  and  makes  the  best  of  every  situation. 


294  MISCELLANEOUS. 

I  walk  the  hills  of  God  to  find  his  footsteps  there  before  me; 
I  turn  my  upward  gaze  to  know  His  greatness  spanneth  o'er 

me; 

I  bend  me  to  the  blades  of  grass  and  listen  to  their  voices, 
While  in  the  glories  of  the  rose  my  inmost  soul  rejoices. 

So  on  my  chosen  path  I  tread,  yet  am  I  never  lonely, 
For,  though  I  seem  to  walk  alone,  'tis  but  in  seeming  only. 
A  peopled  world  surroundeth  me,  a  thousand  times  more  real 
Than  aught  imagination  paints  in  far  off  realms  ideal. 

"My  home  an  Eden?     Yes,  my  friend,  by  Love  long   since 

pre-empted, 
Where  Eve,  to  taste  forbidden  fruit,  hath   never   more   been 

tempted. 

And  if  or  not  to  others  good,  yet  hath  my  humble  rhyming 
A  ladder  proved  on  which  to  give  my  footsteps  higher  climbing. 

Forgive,   good   friends.      I    would    not   vaunt;    yet    something 

here  impels  me  * 

To  give,  as  best  I  can,  the  key  to  what  of  hope  indwells  me. 
Your  kindly  words,  like  evening  dew,  that  lifts  the  drooping 

roses, 

To  one  in  doubt  of  strength  or  worth,  to  nobler  toil  disposes. 
Long  life  to  all;   I  give    you  speed  !    Whate'er  hath  been  of 

sorrow, 
Thank    God    our    friendships    yet    remain,    out-living    every 

morrow. 

Thank  God,  indeed,  that  we  have  lived,  did  blighting  winds 

blow  strongly, 
For  times  and  seasons  hath  the  world  with  us  gone  sad  and 

wrongly; 

Run  up  the  ledger  lines  of  bliss,  by  daily  pen  recorded — 
Wife,  children,  friends  !  though  earth   be  all,  is  life  not  well 

rewarded  ? 


MISCELLANEOUS.  295 

THE   DYING  SOLDIER. 


NAY,  do  not  deceive  me,  doctor: 
My  marching  is  nearly  done: 
I  shall  tent  in  the  shadowy  valley 

Ere  the  dawn  of  to-morrow's  sun. 

You  have  ministered  to  the  body, 
But,  within,  was  a  troubled  ill — 

A  sickness  of  heart  and  of  conscience, 
That  baffled  your  greatest  skill. 

Who  kills  may  not  be  an  "  assassin," 
And  yet,  as  to  manner  of  death, 

It  is  death  all  the  same  to  the  loser, 

Howe'er  be  the  stoppage  of  breath. 

As  a  soldier  I  fought  in  the  war  time, 
A  sharpshooter,  my  rifle  was  true; 

If  the  killing  of  men  was  an  honor, 
Then  honors  were  mine  not  a  few. 

I  was  never  a  weakling,  doctor, 
I've  battled  again  and  again, 

Where  the  blood  at  my  feet  was  flowing, 
Like  floods  from  the  summer's  rain, 

With  never  a  thought  or  quiver 
That  back  of  it  had  a  fear, 

Though  oft,  at  some  simple  sorrow, 
Have  I  dropped,  it  may  be,  a  tear. 

One  morning,  as  after  the  battle, 
I  stood,  and  with  bated  breath, 

Looked  into  the  marble  faces 

Of  men  that  were  cold  in  death, 

I  thought  of  my  day's  sharps  hoot  ing, 

And  how  I  had  seen  them  fall, 
Ere  the  smoke  from  my  rifle  vanished, 
To  the  "ping"  of  my  minnie  ball! 


296  MISCELLANEOUS. 

There  was  one  that  I  well  remembered— 
'Gainst  the  duty  I  felt  was  mine, 

Whose  youthfulness  pleaded  me  strongly, — 
A  lad  on  the  picket  line. 

One  may  stand  at  the  front  of  the  battle, 
And,  putting  up  life  against  life, 

May  find  by  some  chivalric  pleading, 
Excuse  for  his  murderous  strife; 

But  I,  from  my  vantage  of  safety, 
Had  drawn  on  that  boy  in  grey; 

There  was  nothing  for  "chance;"  I  could  hit  him, 
And  did.      It  was  right,  they  say. 

But  I  could  not  quite  help  thinking, 

That  morning,  that,  somewhere,  afar, 

A  mother,  perhaps,  was  awaiting 

Her  darling's  return  from  the  war. 

And  that  moment,  forgetting  the  soldier, 

I  wept  at  my  deed  as  a  man 
That  of  killing  a  brother  was  guilty, 

And  was  resting  as  under  a  ban. 

And  to  deny,  though  it  came  as  a  duty, 
The  heart  of  that  youth  in  its  prime, 

To  have  pierced  from  my  tree  top  of  safety, 
Cometh  back  to  my  soul  as  a  crime. 

Since  that  morning,  and  after  the  battle, 
That  face  or  by  day  or  by  night 

Reproachful  comes  back  to  me  saying, 

"  But  a  coward  from  ambush  would  fight. 

I  suppose  it  is  foolishness,  doctor, 

But  of  those  that  my  bullets  have  missed, 

I  would  often  have  bartered  my  freedom 
That  boy  to  have  found  on  the  list. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  297 

THE  MAKING  OF  THE  WILL. 


TTTHEY  had  gathered  from   the   mountains,  they  had  gath- 
A  ered  from  the  glen — 

Stalwart  sons  and  loving  daughters,  little  maidens,  little  men, 
Making  all  the  echoes  happy,  all  that  bright  November  day, 
Till  the  early  coming  twilight  in  the  shadows  crept  away. 

Thanksgiving  day  was  ended:  they  were  sitting  by  the  fire, 
She,  the   white-capped   smiling   matron — he,   the    stout    gray- 
headed  sire. 

There  was  silence  in  the  household,  save  the  ticking  of  the 

clock, 
And  the  clicking  of  the  needles  as  they  lengthened  out  the 

sock. 

In  the  pantry,  quite  dismantled  by  the  patriarchal  hand, 
Lo  !  the  carcass  of  the  turkey,  like  a  wreck  upon  the  strand; 
Earthern  platters  by  the  dozen,  minus  now  the  pumpkin  pie — 
Empty  pans  and  plates  and  china,  piled  upon  the  table  high. 

Like  a  tempest,  left  the  urchin  a  troubled  track  behind: 

Grandpa's  knife  reported  broken,  scissors  grandma  could'nt 
find. 

Ah  !  but  "  children  will  be  children,"  thought  the  good  old- 
fashioned  pair, 

As  they  sat  and  builded  castles — pretty  castles  in  the  air, 

For* the  laddies  and  the  lassies  of  their  cherished  little  flock, 
To  the  clicking  of  the  needles  and  the  ticking  of  the  clock:— 
Till  the  automatic  fingers  laid  the  knitting  work  away, 
And  the  matron,  thus  outspoken,  talked  about  a  coming  day: 

We  are  getting  old,  my  husband,  and  the  time  is  near  at  hand, 
When  we  start  upon  our  journey  to  the  undiscovered  land; 
It  may  be  upon  the  morrow — at  the  best  no  distant  day, 
And  there's  something    to  be  thought  of  ere  we  go  upon  our 
way. 


298  MISCELLANEOUS. 

We  have  got  two  hundred  acres,  and  a  half  a  dozen  boys, 
With  two  bright  and  loving  daughters,  as  the  crowning  of  our 


Tom  and  Joe,  sharp  as  any,  yet  will  pay  all  they  owe; 
James  and  John  and  Mark  and  Matthew,  all  are  honest  as  we 
know. 

I  am  sure  I  could  not  mention  one  of  all  the  blessed  throng 
That  I  think  would  take  advantage,  or  would  do  the  girls  a 

wrong, 
But  we  cannot  tell  what  may  be;   pure   and  white  as  driven 

snow, 
Greed  for  gain  might  sink  an  angel  to  the  nether  depths  below. 

Yes,  I  understand    you,   mother.     I've   been    thinking    of    it; 

still, 

Had  I  not,  as  yet,  felt  ready  for  the  making  of  my  will. 
But  a  word  has  set  me  thinking;  I  was  in  the  barn  to-day; 
Just   outside   the  boys  were   talking,  and  I  heard  the   eldest 

say, 

As  the  first  born,  to  these  acres  I  was  once  the  only  heir, 
Hence   the   homestead,  by  my  birthright,  ought   to  fall   unto 

my  share. 
How  the  thing  came  up  I  know  not,  for  the  boys  spake  very 

low, 
But  I  heard  the  youngest  answer,  why  begin  the  wrangle  now  ? 

And  the  elder  one  responded,  well,  you  know  they're  getting 

old: 

Thus  I  saw  how  love  is  blunted  at  the  very  touch  of  gold; 
And  I  thought   upon   the   morrow  that   we'd  call   the  lawyer 

man, 
And  we'll  fix  it  as  we  want  it,  or  as  nearly  as  we  can. 

For,  you  see,  it  is  not  easy,  quite,  to  settle  an  estate; 
In  advance  of  circumstances  and  the  happenings  of  fate, 
So  to  deal  out  even  justice  in  accordance  with  the  needs 
Of  the  candidates  in  waiting  for  our  mortgages  and  deeds. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  299 

And  the  first  of  all,  beloved,  I  will  deed  the  half  to  you, 
And  will  say  to  the  survivor  that  the  whole  of  it  shall  go; 
Then  we'll  sign  a  paper  jointly,  so  that  when  our  tale  is  told, 
The  boys   shall  have  the   acres  and  the   girls  shall  have  the 
gold. 

Nay,  twas  thus  upspake  the  matron;  gold  may  take  a  sudden 

flight: 

If  we  write  them  down  as  equals  would  it  not  be  nearer  right  ? 
Houses,  lands,  go  on  increasing  in  their  value  many  fold, 
While  forever  stands  the  dollar  as  a  dollar  but  in  gold. 

You  shall  have  it  as  you  wish  it.     I  could  never  do  the  wrong, 
Of  withholding  from  the  weaker  to  bestow  upon  the  strong. 
We  have  deemed  each   newest  comer  as  the  fairest  and  the 

best 
Of  the  whole  as  with  fledgling  pinions  it  fluttered  from  the 

nest; 

E'en   to-day  when   gathered   round   us,  did  I  look   the   flock 

about, 
For  the  one — if  one  must  leave  us — and  I  could  not  pick  it 

out. 

So  I  think  upon  the  morrow  we  will  call  the  lawyer  man, 
And  we'll  settle  it  as  fairly  and  as  squarely  as  we  can. 

There  was  silence  in  the  household.     She  had  finished  off  the 

sock; 

He  had  asked  continued' blessing  on  the  cherished  little  flock; 
And  the  clock  kept  watch  above  them,  as  they  slumbered  on 

until 
Was  ushered  in  the  morning  for  the  making  of  the  will. 


JOO  MISCELLANEOUS. 


MY  STORY  OF  THE  YEARS. 


I. 

0N  Woodbridge  hills,  till  lately,  stood  an   old  house  by  the 
way, 

Unpainted,  save  by  Father  Time,  and  noted  in  its  day, 
As  where  the  trav'ler  stopped  to   rest,  and  where  the  rustics 

all 

Where  wont  to  bring,  from  far  and  near,  their  maidens  to  the 
ball. 

Here  slept  and  waked  my  kinsmen,  long;  and  just  across  the 

way, 
In  ancient  Woodbridge's  burial  ground  they're  "sleeping"  yet 

to-day; 

So  saith  the  headstone — orthodox — in  waiting  for  . "  the  sound 
Of  Gabriel's  trump  " — somehow,  sometime,  to  wake  them  from 

the  ground. 

In  this  great  house,  two  stories  high,  a  palace  in  its  time, 
One    winter's    day,    first    saw    the    light    the    subject    of    our 

rhyme; 

Twelve  pounds  of  pulpy,  pinky  flesh,  was  all  the  stranger  had, 
With  not  a  crust  for  hunger's  need,  or  pillow  for  his  head. 

His  language  none  could  understand,  though  striving  hard  to 

say, 
As   best   he   could,  by  sign  and  sound,  that  he   had  come  to 

stay: 

E'en  that,  a  little  rusty  from  his  lately  traveled  path, 
He  wanted  to  be  shown  his  room  and  take  his  little  bath. 

Some  said  the  doctor,  some  that  God  had  borne  him  to  the 

spot; 

Whiche'er  it  was,  his  baggage  checks  somebody  had  forgot! 
Since  not  a  rag  the  beggar  had  to  cover  him  from  shame, 
Besides,  to  make  the  matter  worse,  nobody  knew  his  name. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  301 

Who  was  the  first  to  welcome  him  is  not  exactly  clear, 

At  least  to  me— at  sixty-one,— though,  doubtless,  I  was  there; 

So  ne  helpful  hand   there  must  have  been,  for,  of  all  human 

kind, 
A  tramp  more  destitute  than  he  were  hard,  indeed,  to  find. 

A  have  a  dim  remembrance  of  a  pair  of  loving  eyes, 

As  blue  as  if  their  color  had  been  ravished  from  the  skies, — 

Of  loving  arms  that  did  enfold    with    that    great    wond'rous 

love, 
Not  born  of  earth,  but  from  the  fount  of  motherhood  above. 

I    hear    a    soft,    sweet    song    that    comes,    like   some    ^Eolian 

strain, 

To  soothe  and  calm  to  slumber,  or  to  charm  away  some  pain, 
But  then,  ah  me!  that  song  was  heard  in  days  so  long  agone, 
That  only  now  its  echo  comes  to  me,  at  sixty-one. 

II. 

Sometimes — a   child   again — I    think    of    that    small    hand  of 

mine. 

And  wonder  if  my  mother  thought  its  future  to  divine. 
And,    though    perchance,    how    sin    could    stain,    not  easy  to 

foresee, 
Did  not  her  heart  go  trembling  as  she  thought  of  what  might 

be? 

Perhaps.     But  never  more,   I   ween,  than   doth,   to-day,  mine 

own 

At  perils  that  it  hath  escaped;  at  wrongs  it  might  have  done, 
But  for  some  overruling  good,  that  did  its  fortunes  bless, 
And  give  for  it,  where  others  failed,  fair  measure  of  success. 

And  then  that  tablet  of  the  soul — the  brain,  unwrit  upon, 

How  crowded  with  historic  lines,  to-day  at  sixty-one! 

The    hopes    and    fears   that    come  to   all;  the  struggle    for  a 

name; 
The  greeting,   and   the   parting  kiss;  the    word   of  praise,  or 

blame; — 


302  MISCELLANEOUS. 

And  twice  ten  thousand  minor  things,  along  life's  daily  road, 
Picked   up.   somehow,   for   good    or   ill,    and    in    some  corner 

stowed. 
What   if    the   day   shall  come   when  all,  before  the  good  and 

true, 
For  righteous  judgment  and  award,  shall  pass  in  clear  review? 

As  glancing  at  the  record  now,  methinks  I  may  be  glad 
To  find  it  ranked,  if  not  as  "good,"  at  least  not  wholly  bad, 
(Though,  some  will  say  that  whatsoe'er  was  done,  or  left  un- 
done,— 
Such  as  I  am,  by  heav'ns  decree,  am  1  at  sixty-one). 

And  so  began  that  living  line  that  ends — who  knoweth  where  ? 
Three  score  and  one  are  mine  to-night;   pray  shall   I   have  the 

ten  ? 

And  if  I  die,  what  will  be  gained  ?     The    nine  will  soon  go  by 
On  rapid  wings.     And  will  they  leave  me  ready,  then,  to  die? 

At  twenty-one,  so  softly  doth  the  seaward  breezes  blow, 
That  scarce  of  wreck  the  sailor  deems  it  possible  to  know; 
At  sixty-one,  on  weary  wings,  storm-beaten,  worn  and  gray, 
Against  the  wind,  against  the  tide,  his  ship  comes  up  the   bay. 

And  though  seaworthy,  nevermore  of  past  exploits  to  dream, 
Succumbing  slowly  to  the  worm,  he  anchors  in  the  stream; 
Now  heading  up,  or  heading  down  with  ebb  or  flow  of  tide, 
Only  too  glad  to  keep  afloat,  and  from  the  great  untried. 

III. 

In  looking  o'er  some  papers  in  the  old  time  duly  filed 
By  clerkly  hands,  I  came  across  the  record  of  a  child 
That  had — so  did  the  story  go — through  mercy  that  was 

great, 
Been  made,  someway,  a  child  of  God — that  is,  "regenerate." 

That  simple  name,  to  others  naught,  how  did  it  thrill  to   know 
That  it  was  writ  for  me,  for  me!   some  sixty  years  ago! 
To  think  as  one,  that  child  and  I  !   how  strangely  did  it  seem 
To    find    that    golden    hair,    now   gray   and    dropping    in   the 
stream! 


MISCELLANEOUS.  303 

And  what  a  stream  it  was,  and  is!  What  windings  in  and 
out! 

The  yearning  search  for  living  truth;  the  cavilings  of  doubt; 

The  frantic  clutch  at  saving  "planks"  that  none  can  com- 
prehend; 

The  sometimes  sinking  to  despair, — the  grave  the  bitter  end! 

"  Regenerate!"     With  but  one  year  for  sinning  on  the  earth, 
Was  life  then  such  a  failure  as  to  need  a  "second  birth?" 
I  did  not  understand  it  then:  as  little  do  I  now, 
Yet,  from   that   day,  hath   stood,   unseen,  the   cross   upon   my 
brow; 

To  what  effect  heav'n  only  knows.      Perhaps  was  only  meant 
That  so,  by  its  good  influence,  my  footsteps  should  be  bent 
Toward  the  right.     If  so,  perchance,  however  small  the  gain, 
That  holy  sign  upon  my  brow  may  not  have  been  in  vain. 

IV. 

My  mother!     In  that  early  day  when  hope  such  promise  made, 
How  proudly  on  the  altar  was  thy  little  firstling  laid  ! 
For  it  of  future  usefulness  beneath  those  morning  skies, 
What  visions,  as  of  glory,  filled  thy  young  and  tender  eyes  ! 

How  fervent  was  thy  promise  to  the  priestly  office  given, 
Those  tiny  feet  to  train  and  lead  along  the  road  to  heaven  ! 
I  know  not  what  the  end  may  be,  but  if  it  should  be  mine 
To  fail  the  goal,  the  fault,  I  know,  will  not  be  counted  thine. 

My  Mother,  through  thine  own  three  score  of  sweetly  patient 

years, 

The  same  great  trusting,  patient  soul,  in  gladness,  or  in  tears. 
To-night  among  these  chosen  friends,  and  'mid  these  scenes 

of  joy,— 
My   Mother,  from   thine    own    bright   home,   bend  down   and 

bless  thy  boy. 

Because  the  silver  in  his  locks  hath  crowded  out  the  gold, 
And  slower,  weaker  in  his  step,  they  say  he  groweth  old; 


304  MISCELLANEOUS. 

But  only  'tis  his  castle  that  is  falling  to  decay, 
With  mosses  gathered  from  the  years — his  roof  that  grovveth 
gray. 

As  on  the  altar  it  was  thine,  of  old,  to  lay  him  clown, 

In  infancy  with  pleading  prayer,  so  now  at  sixty-one, 

Still  but  a  child,  through  all  the  path  remaining  to  be  trod, 

My  Mother,  reach  thy  helping  hand,  and  lead  him  up  to  God. 


THE   LITTLE  GRUMBLERS. 


44  TO  THAT  for  should  I  be  thankful,  sis?' 

JLA  Said  little  Tommy  Brown; 

"  There  ain't  a  wusser  knife  nor  that 

In  all  this  ugly  town. 
I'll  bet  it  did  not  cost  a  dime." 

"Be  careful,  Tom,"  they  said; 

"  But  just  see  there,  my  goodness,  sis. 

'Twon't  cut  no  more  nor  lead. 

"  Now  there's  the  knife  of  Billy  Snow, 

Do\vn  yonder  at  the  dyke; 
Pearl-handled  and  six-bladed,  too— 

Now  that  is  something  like. 
And  such  an  edge!   my  goodness,  sis, 

He  took  a  single  hair 
And  clipped  it,  right  afore  my  eyes, 

The  day  that  I  was  there." 

"And  see,"  said  little  Wilhelmine, 

"  'At  'ittle  nassy  doll! 
Hands,  dey  are  sticks;  hair  t'at  is  wool; 

Eyes,  dey  don't  wink  at  all! 
And  such  a  d'ess!   my  doodness,  Tom! 

All  tied  up  wid  a  string! 
I  wonder  what  they  sink  I  want 

Of  such  a  nassy  sing  ? 


MISCELLANEOUS.  305 

"  I  bet  I'd  div  a  better  sing, 

Or  nossin'  div  at  all; 
You  frow  away  your  mean  ole  knife, 

And  I  frow  'way  my  doll." 
And  so  the  little  ones  ran  on 

About  their  fortune  bad, 
Repining  o'er  what  they  had  not, 

Despising  what  they  had. 

Around  the  corner  of  the  street, 

And  down  an  alley  way, 
Upon  a  sloping  cellar  door, 

Some  children  were  at  play; 
And  up  and  down  the  steep  incline, 

Such  merry  fun  they  had, 
When  up  spoke  little  Marguerite, 

"  I  think  it  be  too  bad, 

"That  there  be  children  on  the  street, 

That  are  so  very  poor 
That  they,  to  have  such  fun  as  we, 

Haint  got  no  cellar  door." 
God  bless  the  little  Marguerite! 

Barefooted — thinly  clad; — 
.That  found  beneath  such  humble  guise 

Good  reason  to  be  glad. 

Gold  is  not  wealth:  a  simple  gown 

May  clothe  the  village  queen 
As  richly  as  the  city  belle, 

With  all  her  fairy  sheen. 
Full  oft  the  poorest  poverty 

In  silk  and  satin  bound; 
While  underneath  contented  rags 

The  truest  wealth  is  found. 

So,  children, — we  of  larger  growth,— 
As  down  life's  steep  incline 


3  O  6  M I SC '  K  U ,  A  N  E  O  U  S. 

We  journey  on,  its  proffered  cup, — 
Or  water  filled,  or  wine, — 

We'll  take  with  ever  grateful  hand, 
While  pitying  yet  the  "  poor  " 

Who  live  adown  some  alley  way 
And  have  no  "  cellar  door." 


TWO  WAYS  OF   LIVING. 


i. 

0LD   Griper  Gripp,  that  once  I  knew, 
Was  what  the  world  calls  well  to  do: 
That  is,  the  daily  "street"  upon 
-His  name  was  counted  number  one. 
At  village  bank,  with  balance  good, 
Among  the  best  his  credit  stood: 
E'en  favored  by  his  fellow  men, 
He  wrote  his  name  with  H-o-n. 

Though  straining  at  the  gnat  of  right, 
The  camel  wrong,  and  easy  quite, 
He  swallowed,  keeping  well  in  sight 
The  statute  law.      Though,  in  his  deal, 
He  often  closely  trod  the  heel 
Of  whom  that,  as  to  "mine  and  thine," 
Forgets  to  draw  the  moral  line. 

At  church  he  hired  a  family  pew, 
And  promptly  paid  the  rentals  due; 
Though  Deacon  Good,  who  passed  the  hat 
On  mission  days  could  tell  us  that, 
Whate'er  the  cause,  he  never,  quite, 
Could  hit  old  Griper's  pocket  right; 
Though  wishing  well  poor  dying  men, 
He'd  nothing  smaller  than  a  ten; 
Or  else,  to  his  "  regret,"  perchance, 
His  change  was  in  his  "  tother  pants." 


MISCELLANEOUS.  307 

Each  Sunday  morn,  with  pious  care, 
He  opened  up  the  book  of  prayer, 
And,  kneeling  down,  imploring  said, 
"Lord  give  to  us  our  daily  bread/' 
Although,  when  asked,  himself  to  give 
That  starving  men  might  eat  and  live, 
He  struck  the  pleading  angel  dumb, 
With  "charity  begins  at  home." 

The  promise  made  (he  read  it  "gold  ") 
Of  "bread  "  returning  many  fold, 
As  written  in  the  Holy  Book, 
To  him  had  such  a  thrifty  look 
That  oft  he  made  the  venture,  yet, 
Lest  heav'n  the  bargain  should  forget, 
Whene'er  the  seaward  "  bread  "  he  cast, 
To  "business"  line  he  made  it  fast, 
So  that,  if  came  no  luck  alack! 
With  prudent  hand  to  draw  it  back- 
Some  cheat  on  nature  to  devise — 
Still  closer  to  economise! 
This  was  the  one  great  aim  in  life, 
That  ruled  old  Griper's  stingy  wife. 
From  dairy  shelf  and  rifled  nest, 
To  market  went  her  daily  best; 
While  on  her  own  scant  table  spread 
Was  creamless  milk,  unbuttered  bread. 

Among  her  cold  unpictured  halls, 
Half  furnished  rooms  and  naked  walls, 
Shut  out  from  every  hope  that  cheers, 
Grown  sordid,  soulless  with  the  years, 
Trudged  weary  on  this  drudging  slave, 
Her  narrowed  pathway  to  the  grave. 
In  short,  their  acres  to  extend; 
The  much  to  get,  the  little  spend; 
With  slumber  scant  at  plough  and  wheel, 


308  MISCELLANEOUS.    ' 

To  fill  the  time  tvvixt  meal  and  meal; 
Such  was  the  weary  rounding  strife 
That  bound  old  Griper  and  his  wife, 
Who,  as  the  yearly  cycles  rolled, 
Clutched  tighter  still  their  precious  gold, 
Until  their  shriveled  souls,  aghast 
At  funeral  bills,  stole  out  at  last, 
Leaving  their  bodies,  side  by  side, 
To  wonder  why  they  lived  and  died. 

II. 

Upon  the  hill,  not  far  away, 

Lived  at  the  time  one  Simon  Gray, 

Not  over  rich,  yet  was  he  known 

To  hold  of  honest  "gear"  his  own, 

Enough  all  current  bills  to  pay, 

With  something  for  a  rainy  day; 

Though  fearing  not  sheol  or  hell, 

He  gladly  heard  the  Sabbath  bell, 

And,  to  its  oft  inviting  tongue, 

Joined  in  the  praises  said  or  sung, 

Heard  of  a  God  to  be  appeased, 

Took  what  he  could,  thought  what  he  pleased. 

Though  wasteful  not,  with  liberal  hand 

He  fully  met  each  fair  demand. 

"  Keep  to  the  right, — give  half  the  road,"- 

This  was  the  farmer's  moral  code; 

And  strictly  to  its  mark  he  trod, 

In  market  place  and  house  of  God. 

Within  his  household  gates  enthroned, 
Sat  peace  and  comfort,  plenty  crowned, 
Where  music  came,  with  art,  to  please 
And  brighten  all  his  hours  of  ease. 

When  to  his  friendly  open  door 
Came  seeking  aid  the  worthy  poor, 


MISCELLANEOUS.  309 

Two  loaves  in  hand,  he  kept  but  one, 
While  had  his  pleading  brother  none; 
For  in  his  plain,  blunt  way,  he  said, 
'Tvvas  not  his  own — God  made  the  bread. 

Beloved  of  all,  his  gentle  dame 
Made  welcome  all  that  to  them  came; 
By  ceaseless  care  for  others  good 
She  gathered  wealth  least  understood 
By  whom,  forgetting  "  thee  "  and  "thine," 
Give  only  heed  to  "me  "  and  "mine." 
And  this  is  why  that,  while  the  twain 
Had  aught  of  meat  or  aught  of  grain, 
Not  one  sweet  mercy  made  demand, 
That  did  not  find  a  helping  hand. 

When,  at  the  last,  with  duty  done, 
Came  to  them  both  life's  setting  sun, 
Like  children  twain,  and  hand  in  hand, 
They  journeyed  to  the  promised  land, 
Crowned  by  the  wreaths  that  glory  weaves, 
And  laden  with  well  ripened  sheaves. 

As  side  by  side  their  bones  recline. 
By  way  of  moral,  brother  mine, 
I  ask  you  which  was  richest,  pray, 
Or  Farmer  Grip  or  Farmer  Gray  ? 

III. 

There's  something  grand  in  living 

So,  my  friend, 
That  shall  come  no  sad  misgiving 

At  the  end: 

In  our  dealings  with  each  other, 
Conscience  nevermore  to  smother, 
Loving  God,  and  one  another, 

To  the  end. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


THANKSGIVING  IN  YE  OLDEN  TYME. 


IN  the  last  days  of  November,  when  the  air  was  getting  cool^ 
And  the  apples  had  been  gathered,  and  the  granaries  were 

full, 
Came   the  wished-for   proclamation,   from   the   pulpits  of  the 

land, 
For  a  season  of  Thanksgiving,  by  the  governor's  command. 

Quick,   the   kitchens   all   were   busy,   and   the    apple   and   the 

quince 
On   the  tables  were   uprounding,   while   the   sausage   and   the 

mince 
Were  chopped,  and  mixed  and  flavored,  and  the  pumpkin  pies 

were  browned, 
And  the  proud   old  turkey,   lifeless,   was   stretched    upon   the 

ground, 

For  the  children  that  were  coming — homeward  coming  from 

their  farms; 
John   and    Jennie,   Mark   and    Mary  with   their   little   ones  in 

arms, 
And   their    great    big-hearted    laddies,   and    their    plump   and 

hearty  girls — 
Sun-browned    and    weather-toughened,    with    a    multitude    of 

curls. 

TI. 

Hark  !  along  the   country   highways   hear   the   clatter   of    the 

heels  ' 
Get  up,  Dobbin!  hey,  there,   Robbin  !     Faster,  faster  go  the 

wheels  ! 

Distances  are  counted  nothing;  twenty  miles,  not  far  away, 
To  the  children  home  returning  for  the  great  Thanksgiving 

day. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  3  f  i 

What   a  welcome    there    awaiting !    Grandma,   everywhere,    is 

seen, 

With  her  doughnuts  and  her  cookies,  and  her  pinafore  so  clean! 
Grandpa,  catching  up  the  babies,  and  dancing  o'er  the  floor, 
As  if,  with    the    happy  moment,  age    had  vanished   from   the 

door. 

And  then  the  hour  of  feasting  !  Was  there  ever  such  a  spread  ? 
Eager,  how  they  gather  'round  it,  with  the  grandsire  at  the 

head; 

Wait  they  but  a  prayerful  moment,  rev'rent  bending  every  one; 
Then,  huzza  !  the  signal  soundeth,  and  the  battle  is  begun. 

Ho  !  the  great  brown  smoking  turkey,  and  the  chickens  every 

one, 

By  the  vote  of  all  the  party,  seasoned  well  and  fully  done; 
And   the   pumpkin   pies   and    puddings,   though    melting   fast 

away, 
Yet  ample  in  their  storage  for  the  great  Thanksgiving  day ! 

III. 

The  supper  o'er,  the  pantries  are  inspected,  and  the  cheese: — 
The  apple  sauce  and  butter,  and  the  honey  of  the  bees: 
While  the  children  raid  the  attic,  hunting  out  the  little  shoes 
Once,  perchance,  that  were   the  fathers' — all   stubbed   out  at 

the  toes, 

Or,  with  mouldiness  half  covered;  the  hat  without  a  brim, 
That  the  youngest  one  declareth  a  perfect  fit  for  him. 

In  the  sunshine  on  the  south  side  of  the  cottage  are  the  sons, 
Recounting  of  their  labors  or  the  trophies  of  their  guns  ! 
While,  within,  the  matron  listens  to  the  hist'ries  of  the  year; — 
With  joy  to  give*  rejoicing — with  sorrow  drop  the  tear. 
Nightfall  brings  at  last  the  parting,  and  the  blessing  of  the 

sire, 

The  homeward  ride  returning,  and  the  chat  around  the  fire 
About  the  day  eventful:   its  triumphs  and  its  cheer- 
By  its  pleasure  fully  measured,  the  longest  of  the  year. 


312  MISCKLLANKi  >US. 

IV. 

I  am  but  a  little  maiden,  and  the  story  1  unfold 
Is  a  story  that  was  told  me  of  the  simple  days  of  old, 
When  to  make  a  maiden  happy,  such  as  I,  in  many  ways 
Wasn't  nearly  so  expensive  as  in  these  our  latter  days. 

Though  the  little  frock,  or  jacket,  queerly  fashioned,  that  they 

wore, 

Were  carded,  spun  and  woven,  all  within  the  cottage  door, 
They  were  sported  just  as  proudly  and  as  grandly  as  to-day 
Wre  children  sport  our  dresses,  more  costly  and  so  gay ! 

Yet,  although  a  little  maiden,  I  am  old  enough  to  know 
Into  humble,  holy  living,  that  my  duty  is  to  grow, 
And  to  learn,  as  on  I  travel  tow'rd  the  beautiful  and  true, 
If  the  blessings  are  not  many,  to  be  happy  with  the  few. 

So  on  this  our  own  Thanksgiving,  as  we  gather  at  the  feast, 
Let  us,  one  and  all,  remember  to  be  thankful  for  the  least 
Of  all  the  many  blessings  that  may  come  unto  our  door; 
Giving  freely,  as  receiving,  to  the  friendless  and  the  poor. 


LO!  THE  POOR  INDIAN. 


YTFHERE'S  a  land  in  the  west  where  the  mountains  are  grand, 
JL      The  hill  tops  are  green  and  the  breezes  are  bland; 
Where  the  red  man  remains,  like  a  sentinel  lone, 
To  watch  o'er  the  empires  forgotten  and  gone. 

Untutored,  uncultured,  the  plaything  of  fate- 
Unskilled  in  the  ways  of  a  civilized  state — 
He  asks  not  for  empire  so  he  but  remains 
To  hunt  the  wild  buffalo  over  the  plains. 

He  plants  his  rude  lodge  on  the  banks  of  the  stream, 
Where  to  sit  at  the  close  of  the  day  and  to  dream, 
While  his  fathers  come  back  in  their  shadowy  lines, 
To  picture  the  plains  with  their  mystical  signs  ! 


MISCELLANEOUS.  313 

They  mount  the  war  mound,  with  its  terraces  high, 
And  again  through  the  air  do  their  swift  arrows  fly: 
The  stone  from  the  sling  and  the  arrows  sharp  thrust 
Leave  the  foe,  as  of  old,  with  his  face  in  the  dust. 

The  vision  is  past  and  he  wakes  from  his  dream, 

To  find  on  the  banks  of  his  beautiful  stream, 

That  the  mounds  where  the  bones  of  his  fathers  were  urned, 

Th'  invader  hath  levelled — the  plowshare  hath  turned. 

He  sees  the  proud  cap  of  the  white  surging  wave, 
As  it  sweeps  to  the  westward  the  ranks  of  the  brave, 
From  the  homes  of  their  childhood  forever  away, 
And  the  hunter  of  old  is  the  hunted  to-day. 

O'er  mountain  and  hilltop — through  meadow  and  plain, 
He  flees  from  the  demon  of  plunder  and  gain; 
Though  famine  confront  him,  he  dare  not  go  back, 
For  the  red  hand  of  slaughter  is  close  on  the  track. 

No  right  that's  held  sacred,  no  "treaty  "  so  strong, — 
Though    the   "  Great    Father "   sign, — as   to  guard  him   from 

wrong; 

His  household  polluted,  himself  but  a  slave; 
No  spot  on  the  earth  for  so  much  as  a  grave. 

Then,  standing  erect  in  the  strength  of  his  pride, 
Do  you  wonder  he  clutches  the  gun  at  his  side  ? 
As  he  turneth,  at  length,  on  the  foe  in  his  path, 
Do  you  wonder  his  knife  is  the  tongue  of  his  wrath  ? 

Pale  face,  or  red,  'tis  a  pitiful  knave, 
That  stands  not  his  home  and  his  fireside  to  save; 
That  cringes  and  creeps  at  a  tyrant's  behest — 
E'en  the  viper  will  strike  who  invaded  his  nest  ! 

"  Treacherous  ?"     Yes,  but  the  white  man  is  that. 
"Indolent?"     Doubtless,  and  "savage,"  and  yet 
To  hound  or  to  starve,  or  to  shoot  him,  at  sight, 
May  "  solve  a  great  problem  "  but  can  never  be  right. 


314  MISCELLANEOUS. 

Once  to  his  shores  came  a  shivering  crew, 
Houseless  and  homeless,  their  numbers  but  few; 
Were  they  sent,  can  we  say,  to  some  barren  "reserve," 
To  be  hedged  in  with  arrows  to  shiver  and  starve  ? 

Nay,  but  the  hand  of  the  God-fearing  Perm, 
They  took  as  a  man  that  was  dealing  with  men; 
And  scarce  till  debauched  and  depraved  by  the  white, 
Did  the  red  ever  swerve  from  the  line  of  the  right  ! 

Let  us  be  just.     In  the  name  of  our  God, 

If  justice  still  lives  where  a  pilgrim  hath  trod, 

Let  us  call  off  our  war  dogs — our  ring  thieves,  and  then 

Let  us  see  if  poor  "  Lo  "  will  not  live  like  a  man. 

Ne'er  be  it  said  while  a  million  of  graves 
Are  green  in  the  land  for  the  men  that  were  slaves, 
That  th'  shackle  was  torn  from  the  ebony  wrist, 
But  to  clasp  the  red  hand  of  this  child  of  the  west ! 


DECEMBER. 

llfHE  tempest  gathers  overhead,  the  clouds  hang  dark  and 
A  low; 

Already,   through   the  chill   grey  air  comes  sifting  down  the 
snow. 

The  flocks,  instinctive,  seek  the  fold;  with  hurrying  homeward 

pace, 
The  shivering  kine  safe  shelter  seek  to  chew  the  cud  of  peace. 

Wild  grows  the  storm,  and  careless   blind   and  gate   swing  to 

and  fro; 

God  help  who  hath  no  roof  to-night  to  shelter  from  the  snow! 
There    was    a    time — alas  !    gone    by — a    time    of    birds    and 

flowers — 
Of    green  clad    hills    and    sunny    skies — of    soft    and     shady 

bowers. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  315 

And  back  as  retrospection  flits,  again  beside  the  brook 
Where  once  I  trolled,  I  troll  again  the  barbed  and  baited  hook. 

Above,  the  sky  is  soft  and  blue;  below,  the  earth  is  green, 
And  sweet  the  sea  of  perfumed  air  that  seems  to  flow  between. 

Once  more  I  see  the  dew-drops  strung  like   pearls  along  the 

spray; 
Again  is  heard  from  topmast  bough  blithe  robin's  roundelay. 

The  limpid  waters  dance  and  sing  along  the  pebbly  shore, 
Or  loiter  'neath  the  green  clad  boughs  that  shade  the  cottage 
door. 

The  dream  is  past;  the  skies  are  cold;  the  grass  is  crisp  and 

sere; 
With  rustling  leaves   December  strews  the   death-bed  of  the 

year. 

Yet  high — heap  high   the  glowing  grate,  and  make  the  circle 

wide, 
Forgetting  not  that  winter's  gloom  hath  yet  a  sunny  side, — 

That,   cheerless   though  December's  snow,  and  sharp  his  icy 

dart, 
The  worst  of  all  that  can  befall  is  the  winter  of  that  heart 

Which  underneath  the  russet  leaf  hath  buried  every  joy, 
That  hath,  alas!  no  love  or  hope,  without  some  crude  alloy. 

Let  tempests  howl!  we'll  heap  the  grate!  up,  up  the  Christmas 

tree! 
Kriss  Kringle,  bring  your  jolly  pack  and  spread  its  treasures 

free, 

That  Joe  and   Jake,  and  Bet  and  Bess,  with  all  the  precious 

crew, 
With  glad  surprise  may  feast  their  eyes,  and  fill  their  pockets, 

too! 


316  MISCELLANEOUS. 

And  if,  perchance,  less  favored  ones  should  stand  without  the 

door, 
Remember  that  the  Christmas  King  Himself  was   of  the  poor. 

And  as  our  evening  light  goes  out  with  glad  and  cheering  ray, 
So  may  we  help  some  darkened  soul  to  find  the  better  way. 

For  at  the  best  they  are  so  short — our  seasons  here  below — 
That  summer's  wheat   must  get  a  start  beneath  the  winter's 
snow; 

And  well  for  ,him  who  in  the   spring,  finds  that  his  growing 

sheaves 
Of  love  and  hope  gained  hardy  root  beneath  December  leaves. 


DISCOURAGEMENTS. 


TITHE  sun  comes  up  and  the  sun  goes  down, 
JL  And  the  great  world  wakes  or  slumbers; 

Love  strikes  its  harp  to  a  tender  tone, 
Or  to  wild  and  thrilling  numbers. 

Ambition  sitteth  her  steed,  alack! 

Through  the  smiling  valley  whirling, 
While  over  the  skyward  chimney  stack 

The  prosperous  smoke  is  curling. 

I  hear  the  clack  of  the  press  of  time, 
With  voice,  as  it  were,  of  thunder! 

If  aught  can  hinder  its  work  sublime, 
I  stand  by  its  side,  and  wonder. 

Alas,  for  us!     Just  when  we  think 

That  our  ends  are  so  well  shapen, 

That,  of  some  glory,  we're  on  the  brink, 
There's  something  sure  to  happen! 

The  sun  comes  up  and  the  sun  goes  down, 

In  a  doubtful  sort  of  vapor; 
And  the  great  world  stands  aghast,  that  Brown 

Should  have  gone  and  stopped  his  paper! 


MISCELLANEOUS. 

LINES. 


READ    AT    THE    SILVER    \VKI)DIN(;    oi      \V.     \V.     LEE    AM)    WIFE,    MERIDEN, 

jn.v  24th,  1876. 

FOOL,  said  my  muse  to  me  once  on  a  time, 
Look  in  thy  heart  and  find  me  a  rhyme, — 
For  whom  I  would  honor,  come  get  me  a  rhyme. 
But  wherefore  a  rhyme,  said  I,  O  thou  my  muse  ? 
If  aught  must  be  said,  why  not  say  it  in  prose  ? 
In  the  easier  way  let  me  say  it  in  prose. 

And  thus  said  rny  muse: 

Though  the  rhyme  have  no  sense,  yet  often  it  will 
Sugar-coat  to  your  taste  a  very  bad  pill. 
In  the  years  long  ago — something  less  than  a  hundred — 
Near  the  City  of  Elms,  by  the  wayside  there  wandered 
A  hopeful  young  pilgrim,  just  started  in  life, 
Who,  like  Coelebs,  was  roaming  in  search  of  a  wife. 
From  the  hills  of  Barkhamsted,  whose  beacon  hath  shed 
Such  lustre  historic,  his  footsteps  had  led 
Through  the  highways  and  byways  of  city  and  mart, 
In  search  for — well,  something  concerning  the  heart; 
Though  there's  room  for  doubt,  with  regard  to  the  latter, 
If  the  youngster,  himself,  knew  just  what  was  the  matter. 
Yet,  that  something  was  wrong  with  that  "  muscle  "  he  knew 
By  the  way  that  the  plaguey  thing  fluttered  and  flew, 
Every  time,  at  the  church,  that  he  sat  himself  down 
By  the  side  of  a  curl  or  a  calico  gown. 
An  ill-defined  longing,  that  ended  in  tears: — 
A  feeling  that  he  was  but  half  of  the  shears: — 
One  leg  of  the  compass,  that,  turn  as  it  would, 
Struck  never  a  circle — as  never  it  could: — 
A  yearning,  at  times,  for  a  rope,  or  the  river 
With  half  uttered  thoughts  of  a  ''farewell  forever" 
To  the  cruel  old  world  that  was  such  a  deceiver  ! 
In  short,  from  his  symptoms,  'twas  plain  to  be  seen, 
That  though  he  had  lived  through  the  usual  routine, 


318  MISCELLANEOUS. 

Of  teething,  baptisement,  the  measles,  and  mumps, 
He  was  likely  to  yield  to  the  "  true  lovyer's  "  dumps. 
Nay,  deride  not  his  weakness,  my  batchelor  friend  ! 
You've  been  there  yourself — or  you'll  go  in  the  end; 
For  when  the  bold  Cupid,  his  strong  bow  shall  bend, 
You  cannot,  forever,  your  heart-skin  defend. 
Though  this  for  your  comfort  as  every  one  knows, 
The  older  the  bark  the  tougher  it  grows. 

But,  this  by  the  way.     Through  the  day  and  the  night, 

And  the  night  and  the  day — by  the  aid  of  that  "  light  " 

From  the  Barkhamsted  hills,  our  hero  pressed  on, 

With  his  back  to  the  town  and  its  butterfly  throng, 

Sipping  beauty  and  honey  from  this  flower  and  that, 

By  way  of  a  balm  for  his  sorrows;  and  yet, 

Like  one  who  athirst  in  the  desert  doth  hear 

The  ripple  of  waters  that  ever  are  near, 

Yet  ever  are  far — so  he  struggled  amain, 

Tow'rd  the  mirage  that  promised,  but  to  fail  him  again, 

But,  to  shorten  the  story,  suffice  it  to  say, 

That  he  lived  it  all  through  and  is  living  to-day, 

Thrice  blest  by  the  "  heart's  ease  "  he  found  at  the  door 

Of  a  little  low  cottage  close  down  by  the  shore. 

Thrice  blest,  did  I  say  ?     Ah,  well  do  I  know, 

Brother  Wallace,  the  worth  of  these  flowrets  that  grew,— 

So  sweetly,  and  gently,  and  loving,  and  true, 
Side  by  side  in  that  cottage,  for  me  and  for  you. 
You  have  fought  a  good  fight!     I  have  done  what  I  could, 
And  the  world,  as  I  trust,  has  gained  something  in  good. 
You  have  drank  the  sweet  drops  from  our  mythical  spring; 
You  have  wore  the  proud  vestments  of  Judea's  king; 
You  have  heard  the  loud  plaudit  that  greeted  your  name, 
When  the  stone,  once  rejected,  the  corner  became: 
And  yet,  oh  my  brother,  and  yet  who  shall  say, 
When  our  labor  is  done  at  the  close  of  the  day, 
And  we  debit  our  losses,  and  credit  our  gains, 
And  God  strikes  the  balance  for  all  that  remains 


MISCELLANEOUS.  319 

That  is  worthy  of  record,  who  shall  say  what  is  due 
To  the  influence  sweet  of  those  flow'rets  that  grew, 
Side  by  side  in  that  cottage;  for  me  and  for  you  ? 

As  through  the  rough  valleys  our  footsteps  have  led, 

These  tent-mates  of  ours  have  been  help-mates,  indeed! 

Or  in  weal,  or  in  woe,  with  the  flow  of  the  years, 

They  have  joyed  with  our  joy,  and  have  shared  in  our  tears. 

And  if,  while  on  guard,  and  our  mentors  they  stood, 

They  have  blamed  when  they  must,  they  have  praised  when 

they  could. 

And  though — as  stern  fortune  decreed  it — they  got 
Little  gold  with  their  venture,  accepting  their  lot, 
They  have  wasted  no  tears  over  what  it  was  not: 
But  heart  beat  to  heart  beat,  their  lives  have  been  spent 
In  the  kingdom  of  love  and  the  lap  of  content. 

Oh  blessed  contentment!  thrice  precious  above 

All  price  are  thy  "  herbs  "  in  the  cottage  of  love! 

Where  wanting  but  little,  that  little  is  given, 

And  souls,  all  untrammelled,  strike  straight  out  for  heaven. 

Aye!  whose  heads,  like  a  land  rising  up«through  the  night. 

Catch,  already,  the  beams  of  the  first  morning  light, 

Which  stream  from  the  open  gates,  pearly  and  white! 

Wealth  may  build  up  her  palaces,  wondrous  and  fair; 

May  fill  them  with  fashion  and  ornament  rare; 

But  the  worm  at  the  core  is  sure  to  be  there. 

Then,  where  peace  rules  the  night  and  love  rules  the  day, 

Where  hope  talks  of  heaven,  and  faith  points  the  way:— 

Where  soulless  ambition  nor  envy  are  sent, 

Let  me  live,  let  me  die  in  the  lap  of  content. 

There's  a  wealth  that  is  better  than  gold! 

There's  a  joy  that  can  never  forsake  us! 

There  are  deeds  that  will  purchase  a  kingdom,  beyond 

Where  the  waters  of  death  overtake  us. 


32O  MISC1 

There  are  heights  upon  heights  to  be  won! 
White  fields  that  with  harvest  are  gleaming, — 
The  heights  of  true  manhood — the  harvest  of  love- 
And  there's  never  a  moment  for  dreaming. 

You  may  call  it  the  "cant  of  a  saint," 
You  may  deem  it  the  rant  of  a  rhymer! 
But  to  live  for  another,  unmindful  of  self, 
I  know  that  there's  nothing  sublimer. 

Then  give  me,  my  brother,  your  hand^ 

Brown,  yet  bright  with  the  glory  of  labor, 

I  invoke  on  it  blessings!   and  long  may  you  stand — 

As  of  old — to  do  battle  for  truth  in  the  land, 

For  your  God,  for  your  home  and  your  neighbor. 


THE  VOLUNTEER  BELL. 


Hark  to  the  bell, 
The  silver-tongued  bell, 
The  iron  and  steel  works  bell; 

With  the  gleaming  of  the  light, 
In  the  middle  of  the  night, 
How  it  startles  us  affright 
With  its  knell! 

Dong,  ding,  dong, 
Is  the  little  bell's  song, 
Till  it  wakes  up  the  steel  works  gong- 
And  the  belfry  on  the  green; 
And  the  leather  hats  are  seen 
With  their  hurrying  machine, 
Speeding  along. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 

To  the  fire,  fire,  fire! 

The  serpent-tongued  fire! 
The  leaping  and  demoniacal  fire! 
That  is  robbed  of  its  prey 
By  the  little  bell's  play, 
As  it  summons  us  away 

To  the  fire! 

So  here's  to  the  bell, 
The  volunteer  bell, 
The  iron  and  steel  works  bell; 

When  its  usefulness  shall  end 

This,  our  gallant  little  friend, 
May  it  nevermore  descend 
To  the  fire. 


TO  MY  MOTHER  IN  HEAVEN. 


0  WOULD  that  I  were  with  thee  now, 
My  mother  dear, 
In  heaven  before  God's  throne  to  bow 

In  reverent  fear. 
While  thou  wert  here  life  seemed  a  stream 

But  all  too  calm; 

How  could  I  ever  with  thee  dream 
Of  aught  of  harm. 

Each  ripple  that  around  me  broke 

Was  fraught  with  joy; 
Each  morn  to  bliss  I  but  awoke 

Without  alloy. 
And  can  I  deem  that  thou' art  gone 

To  Heaven  above  ? 
That  I  must  tread  life's  path  alone 

Without  thy  love  ? 


322  MISCELLANEOUS. 

That  thou  on  me  no  more  shall  smile, 

With  gentle  mien  ? 
Thy  tender  voice  no  more  beguile 

The  weary  e'en  ? 
No,  no!   I'll  ne'er  believe  it  so, 

For  thou  art  near; 
Thy  angel  voice  shall  soothe  my  woe, 

And  dry  the  tear; 

Thy  spirit  hover  round  my  bed, 

My  visions  fill; 
Thy  blessings  fall  upon  my  head, 

Peaceful  and  still; 
And  when  the  night  of  death  shall  come, 

In  heaven  I'll  join 
Thy  spirit  nevermore  to  roam, 

From  bliss  divine. 


ON  SAMBRO   LEDGE. 


FOU-R  miles  south-west  of  Chebucto  head 
Lifts  Sambro  ledge  from  its  ocean' bed, 
Where  a  gallant  ship  that  had  gone  astray 
Went  down  to  wreck  in  the  ocean  spray. 

Along  the  streets  of  the  Netherland 
Was  the  legend  seen  upon  every  hand, 
"  Our  ships  are  safest  to  cross  the  brine; 
Ho!  traveller,  take  the  White  Cross  line!" 

A  hundred  or  more  of  peasants  heard, 
And,  taking  the  promisers  at  their  word, 
O'er  the  great  North  Sea  did  their  pathway  lead 
Tow'rd  the  sunken  rocks  at  Chebucto  head. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  323 

From  Antwerp  out,  twas  the  fourteenth  day: 
Nor  moon  nor  star  shed  a  cheering  ray 
On  the  midnight  track.      E'en  Sambro's  light 
Was  drowned  in  the  mist  of  that  April  night. 

Snug  in  their  berths,  the  pilgrim  band 
Were  dreaming  of  home  and  fatherland, 
•Or  of  realms  at  hand,  by  their  faith  as  seen, 
Where  labor  was  king  and  love  was  queen. 


Turning  his  back  on  the  blinding  storm, 
And  hieing  below  himself  to  warm, 
The  captain,  yielding  the  wheel's  command, 
•Gave  up  the  ship  into  Harding's  hand. 

And  I  read  the  tale  of  that  farther  night, 
That  heeding  not,  or  if  wrong  or  right, 
The  captain  slept  while  his  ship,  alack! 
Went  miles  inland  from  the  proper  track. 

And  I  farther  read,  that,  of  young  and  old, 
From  the  hungry  waters  dark  and  cold, 
Of  lives  as  precious  as  yours  or  mine, 
Of  the  hundred,  alas!  were  saved  but  nine! 

There's  a  drunken  wretch — a  frensied  blow, 
And  a  brother  is  lying  stark  and  low, 
A  pilot  sleeps  while  the  tempests  rave 
And  a  hundred  have  gone  to  a  watery  grave. 

The  one  is  a  murderer,  so  you  say, 
And  life  for  a  life  doth  he  repay. 
Wii.h  a  hundred  lives  to  be  answered  for, 
Is  the  other,  I  pray  you,  less  or  more  ? 


324  MISCELLANEOUS. 

TRUE  GREATNESS. 

COUNT  no  man  great  because  at  the  nod 
Of  his  jeweled  and  kingly  crown, 
In  meek  submission,  to  kiss  the  sod 

Which  he  treadeth  his  slaves  kneel  down. 

Nor  yet,  because  at  his  tyrant  will 
The  nations  have  reeked  in  blood, 

For  know,  true  greatness  can  only  dwell 
In  the  breast  of  the  truly  good. 


j  <-> 


Count  no  man  great  because  he  can  boast 

Of  millions  of  gold  in  store, 
For  though,  through  the  might  of  his  shining  dust,. 

He  may  trample  the  toiling  poor. 

Yet,  greater  by  far  and  richer  he, 

In  the  wealth  of  the  heaven  above, 
Is  the  man  whose  soul  from  guile  is  free, 

And  whose  heart  is  full  of  love. 


LOVE  CANNOT  DIE. 


0NE  pleasant  morning  the  wedding  chimes 
Rang  out  from  the  tower  of  the  gray  St.  James, 
And  the  village  maidens  came  betimes, 

With  hopeful  lovers  and  bashful  swains, 
Till  the  pews  o'ertlowed  and  the  arches  rang, . 

To  the  greeting  song  which  the  maidens  sang. 

So,  when  at  length  from  the  church  did  move 
The  happy  couple  as  one,  "no  doubt, 

In  the  world,  "1  said,"  that  the  fisher,  Love, 
Knew  perfectly  well  what  he  was  about, 

When  into  the  pool  of  that  shadowy  grove, 
He  cast  his  line  for  the  mythic  trout." 


MISCELLANEOUS.  ™ 

And  then,  methought  if  it  should  be  mine 

Again  to  fish  in  the  stream  of  love, 
The  place  of  all  others  to  drop  a  line, 

Would  be  in  the  stream  of  that  sylvan  grove, 
Afar  from  the  world  in  its  loving  arms 

To  bask  in  the  light  of  a  thousand  charms. 

To-night  I  sit  by  the  sea  alone, 

With  outward  look  to  the  farther  shore, 
And  a  voice,  as  if  from  the  dim  unknown, 

Comes  back  to  me  through  the  sunset  door, 
And,  as  I  look  at  the  fading  sky, 

The  stars  come  out  with  a  timid  glow, 
And  a  tear  of  sorrow  bedims  the  eye, 

For  the  loves  that  went  with  the  long  ago. 

For  so  it  is,  if  we  climb  the  steep 

To-day  to  fish  in  the  silver  stream, 
To-morrow  we  go  to  our  silent  sleep, 

And  love  hath  ended  its  charming  dream; 
Unless— but  why  should  I  raise  the  doubt  ? 

It  must  be  true,  or  the  whispers  lie, 
That  never  a  lover  hath  loved  for  naught; — 
Never  a  love  is  born  to  die. 

But  why,  my  reader,  this  minor  strain 

O'er  the  empty  sheaves  of  the  early  years  r 
Better,  far  better,  the  later  grain 

To  winnow  well  for  the  ripened  ears: 
Better  to  take,  like  the  frugal  bee, 

From  hedge,  or  meadow,  or  thistle-top, 
Ever,  whatever  of  sweet  may  be, 

Thankful  e'en  for  a  honey  drop. 


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